


I'll Be Your Voice

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Injury, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, M/M, Midsummer, Minor Injuries, Rituals, Sacrifice, Witches, parenting together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: There was much that happened since leaving the mountain where Geralt lashed out at Jaskier.In the interim, Geralt found his Child Surprise and brought her back to Kaer Morhen, where she began training in both swordfighting and magic.Now back on the road, they encounter many surprises, but the biggest one is definitely finding a baby after a hunt, and having to care for it.When they are also unexpectedly reunited with Jaskier, Geralt finds himself having to decide how to handle his fraught relationship with the man he loves, all while taking care of Ciri and the baby.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 146
Kudos: 695
Collections: Digital Bookshelf, Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woohoo what a pleasure to be bringing this fic to life here! 
> 
> This was written for the [ Geraskier Midsummer Minibang!](https://geraskiermidsummerminibang.tumblr.com), which was a super fun event for me to do! I loved it so much that this is my second fic for it oops... Go check out the first one, [Burn Like The Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962002/chapters/60425149)! 
> 
> I'm amazingly proud of this fic, and each chapter will post over a day from between today (July 7th 2020) till Saturday (July 11th 2020), so no fear of waiting too long for the ending :D 
> 
> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, [smaller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaller/works), and to all the other people who have listened to my mad ramblings about this story for the past two months :') 
> 
> And of course, thanks to my wonderful artist, [@soosdraws](https://soosdraws.tumblr.com) who made this all the wonderful art for this fic !!

The silence is deafening when the giant finally falls to the ground. There is the loud sound of the body falling to the ground, sure, but it is peace for Geralt’s ears compared to the roar there had been before. The dust in the air drifts over the corpse as it slowly settles and Geralt breathes. The potion he had taken at the beginning of the fight is finally starting to wear off, and he feels his own blood return to normalcy, feels the pain and exhaustion settling over him. It was a long fight. 

He had taken the contract that morning, in a town he was passing through with Ciri. The girl stayed back at the inn, and he could tell she had been glad to have some reprieve from hard travel. They love each other, but it’s tough sometimes, on the road together like this. They can’t take contracts in towns that are too big or have too many people passing through, and Geralt wants to give her all the comforts he can, so they try to stay in inns as much as is safe. That’s why he had needed to take the contract. 

People had been disappearing throughout the region, and sometimes their bodies were found, sometimes they weren’t. When they were, they were half eaten, barely recognizable as human remains. The idea of traveling in the area with Ciri while there was this kind of monster around, for clearly it was a flesh-devouring monster, had turned Geralt’s stomach. The girl is his responsibility, but she is also his daughter, and he’ll die to protect her. So taking the contract had a double benefit: he would protect her, and also get enough coin to let them travel easily through the next few towns. 

There are bodies at the end of the cave, a mass of human corpses half-eaten and rotten. The smell is horrible, and Geralt covers his nose and mouth as he approaches. He isn’t a gravedigger, he is only making sure there is nobody left alive. He’ll tell the townspeople where to find the cave and then he’ll be off, back on the road with Ciri. 

He’s just moved the still-warm corpse of what he believes is a woman when he finds it. 

The baby is small, definitely not old enough to be a toddler, but it – he? She? Geralt can’t tell – is wriggling around, bound to the dead woman’s bosom by a scarf and clasped in her arms so tightly that Geralt struggles a bit to free it. It’s small, and it doesn’t make much noise, but it blinks up at Geralt and moves its arms slightly when it’s free from its mother’s hold. Well, at least what Geralt assumes was its mother. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles as he looks at the baby. It’s… cute, maybe? He doesn’t really know. He hunts and kills monsters, he doesn’t really do the whole baby and family thing. It’s not like he actually _could_ do the whole actual having a child thing. He has Ciri anyway. Now that her whole family is dead, he has to protect and take care of her. What is he supposed to do with a baby? 

He can’t leave it there, that’s for sure. It would die, and Geralt isn’t cruel. If there had been any survivors in the cave, he would have brought them back to the town to be healed, and a baby is really no different. So he makes sure the baby is well wrapped up in its blanket, and slowly makes his way out of the cave. It’s a bit difficult to manage to get down the narrow ledge that led to the cave while holding it, but with the right footholds and careful manoeuvring, he finally reaches the soft forest floor. 

The baby makes a little noise of delight when Geralt grunts as he drops the last few inches. He feels absolutely ridiculous, holding the baby so close to his chest. He hopes he isn’t hurting it, at least. It wouldn’t surprise him if he did. Geralt always seems to fuck up with precious people, with people who need to be cared for and— 

_Don_ ’ _t think about Jaskier_ , he orders himself, but that’s already too late isn’t it? In his mind he replays the harsh words he spoke to his bard and tries not to hate himself for it, but it’s hopeless. He knows it’s his fault, knows he fucked up, and if he were just brave enough he would try to find Jaskier. But he has Ciri to care for now. His own selfish desire to apologize to the bard, to fall to his knees and plead for a chance to be forgiven — _yet another one, yet again, Geralt keeps fucking up, keeps hurting him and—No. Stop. Breathe._ — will have to wait. 

He finds Roach where he had left her, grazing at the soft grass and looking entirely nonchalant at being alone in the woods. That’s what he likes about her; she doesn’t give a shit about anything, and she always stays where she is needed, unless there is an immediate danger to her safety. And he has seen her kicking a monster or two when they got too close. She has spirit. 

The baby falls asleep in his arms as he rides back to town, and he wonders why. Geralt isn’t exactly a people person, and he has never really… handled a baby before. Surely it must be hungry, or troubled by the gore and filth of its swaddling. Still, it seems quite comfortable tucked in the crook of his left arm. Roach keeps to a gentle trot, as if aware of the unexpected presence in her rider’s arms, and Geralt barely has to guide her. Instead, he keeps his focus on the baby, unable to tear his eyes away from it for more than a few seconds. It’s so fragile, and so small, he could break it just by looking at it wrong. 

The baby is silent, but a few times it opens its eyes and gazes at Geralt, blinking slowly before falling back asleep. What a strange little creature it is. It also smells terribly bad, and Geralt wonders if that’s normal. The baby’s eyes are so big, brown and large whenever they peer into his golden ones, and the pale tint of his hands, even paler than most humans’, as he cradles it, is a bright contrast against its darker skin. 

The town isn’t large, but it’s large enough that people don’t stare at him as a novelty as he returns. They have heard of the witcher and why he is there, and they don’t take further notice. Some of them whistle softly as they work, and he can pick out a few people whistling “ _Toss A Coin”_ quietly. Geralt owes that to Jaskier, his better reputation. Without the bard, he would still be the Butcher of Blaviken, the wretched monster who killed a girl and six men without reason. 

Geralt shakes himself free of his own maddening thoughts as he arrives in front of the alderman’s home. He doesn’t tie Roach, knows that no one would dare and try to steal his horse. His mare is feisty enough anyway, she would fight back and kick or bite anyone who tried to take her away. Hoisting the baby in a better hold, Geralt knocks on the door and is ushered inside quickly by a servant, who bows and brings him to a smaller room. It’s the same office he was shown to when the alderman offered the contract, where he was asked to go kill the monster and where he was paid half the money for the job. He had left Ciri at an inn a bit further into the town, and he itches to go check on her now, make sure that nothing has happened to her. As soon as he has the second half of his payment, and the alderman has taken the baby from him, Geralt will be going there, making sure his Child Surprise is alright, and washing the repugnant smell and feel of ichor and guts off of himself. 

“Ah, witcher,” the alderman says as he walks in, thin and lanky, his eyes shining with disapproval as he takes in Geralt’s appearance. He doesn’t appear to notice the bundled up baby in his arms. “I suppose the monster is dead.” 

Geralt grunts. He can tell the man had been hoping Geralt wouldn’t come back, that he would die in the fight, and the world would be rid of two monsters. Tough luck for him. 

“Well then, here is the rest of your payment, as promised.” The pouch he puts on the desk is meagre, but Geralt can’t count the coins because of the infant clinging to him. 

“I found this child in the monster’s den.” 

He extends the baby to the alderman, but rather than stay quiet and look around curiously, the baby starts wailing. Its big brown eyes look at the man and suddenly its face is scrunched up in tears, getting redder by the second. _Fuck_.

The alderman, looking more and more disgusted as he and Geralt remain within the same room, picks up the baby despite its crying and wailing. He looks at it, and when he pokes the child in the face, startling another gasp and cry out of it, Geralt feels an urge to take back the child and get it away from the alderman. 

“I don’t know whose child it is. There hasn’t been any recent birth in town, and no family with a baby has been declared missing.” He extends the baby back to Geralt who, reflexively, reaches out and takes it in his arms again. “Another town had sent word that they had issues with the same creature you dealt with. That baby probably has family there.” 

Geralt looks at the child and then back up at the alderman. The baby quiets down as soon as it’s back in Geralt’s arms and it looks up at the witcher, making little bubbles with its mouth. Geralt ignores the quiet panic that fills him. Is the baby alright? Is it supposed to be doing that? 

“Then I’ll leave it with you to communicate with the next town over and have the child brought there.” 

“You are the one who deals with monsters and the problems they create,” the alderman sneers. “This child is your problem.” 

“I have other matters to attend to,” Geralt grits out. “Taking care of an infant is not in my list of priorities.” 

“Are you shirking your duty, witcher?” 

Geralt balks at that. His duty is to protect Ciri and to make sure she remains safe and protected. The baby isn’t part of his duties. And yet… There is something about the alderman that makes him think that, if he were to forcibly leave the child in his care, it wouldn’t survive the night. And Geralt won’t condemn an infant to death, not even to protect Ciri. They might well have decided to pass through the next town anyway. Despite the inconvenience and how much he does not want to care for a young child, Geralt knows that the baby will fare better with him than with that alderman. He just hopes that Ciri won’t be put at risk because of his choice. 

“Fine,” Geralt grunts and leaves with his money, the child clutched tightly in his arms. 

He walks briskly back to the inn, ignoring the looks he get as he passes people by, holding Roach’s bridle in one hand and what must seem like a foul bundle of rags in the other. He is trying his hardest not to jostle the baby more, it has probably suffered enough from seeing both its parents murdered and being in the cave of a monster who, no doubt, would have eaten it, had Geralt not gotten there first. He feels some guilt rising in him at the idea that he might have never come through this town, might have not rescued that baby. 

_But you did,_ a voice strangely like Jaskier’s says in his mind, trying to soothe him. _You did and that child is safe now, and you_ ’ _re going to bring it to a better place, where it_ ’ _ll live happily and grow up with a family. You_ ’ _re doing a good thing._

He wants to hate those reminders of Jaskier he has in his mind, the way everything circles back to him, but he can’t forget the man. He can’t forget the voice that kept him company on the road, the large blue eyes that watched him with a smile. No matter how much he tries, he thinks back to Jaskier all the time. Even Ciri reminds him of Jaskier. 

He had blamed Jaskier for ending up with her as his Child Surprise, but in truth he should have thanked him. Ciri is a blessing. She is smart and shrewd, and she isn’t afraid. She had been, when Geralt had first met her. She had been shaking as she hugged him, as she held on tightly to him and as he embraced her back. She had looked so much like her mother that it hadn’t taken more than a handful of seconds for Geralt to know that this was Pavetta’s daughter, this was Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra. 

“Geralt!” The girl runs to him as soon as he walks into the room they had rented for the night, but he stops her with a hand on her shoulder before she can hug him tightly. “What’s going on?” 

He is holding the baby with a careful arm now. “I ran into… an unexpected addition to our journey.” 

She looks quickly behind him with a frown, before looking at him and seeing the baby presented to her. “Oh!” 

He grunts as she takes it in her arms, cooing slightly. “We are bringing it to the next town over. The alderman made it my responsibility and assured me the baby was from there. It’s half a day away from here by horse, so we should be fine to stop in an inn tomorrow as well. We might have to camp outside after that, however.” 

Ciri is still holding the baby and cooing. “It’s so adorable! Look at it Geralt, don’t you think he’s cute?” 

“It’s a baby,” he answers with a grunt, sliding his armour off his shoulders. “And it stinks.” 

“That’s because the baby needs to be cleaned! Did the alderman give you anything?” 

“Besides coin, no.” He looks at her as he finishes taking off the armour and sees the frown on her face. “What is it?” 

“Well, you are, we both are, responsible for this baby now, so… We need to take care of him until we bring him back to his family!” 

“‘Take care of him,’” he repeats a bit dumbly, some latent fear rising in him as she coos again at the baby. 

“Yes! You have to get him some milk, and some clothes, and probably some products to clean him, since I know you carry only coarse soap for yourself.” She started listing things he would need while smiling at the baby, then looked up at him. “Aren’t you going?”

“I just came back from killing the creature that devoured the baby’s parents, and half of the monster’s guts are on me. I need to bathe first.” 

Ciri only glares at him slightly. “Well then you can pick up some nicer stuff for yourself too while you’re at it, can’t you?” 

He rolls his eyes but gets back up from where he had sat on one of the two beds. “Fine. Will you be alright here while I’m gone?” 

“Yes, yes, everything will be just fine. I’ll order up a bath and start cleaning the baby! Make sure to get some good milk, we don’t know how young the baby is, so I have no idea if we can feed him food for now.” 

“How do you even know so much about babies?” he asks as he grabs his coins.

“It’s called reading, Geralt,” she smiles with an eye roll and pushes him towards the door. “And also, the maids of the castle sometimes brought their babies. I didn’t mind it, and if my grandmother didn’t hear about it, it was all fine.” 

Geralt grunts and, before leaving, presses a gentle kiss to Ciri’s forehead. “Stay here, and stay safe. You have the dagger?” 

She nods and hugs him sideways to not hurt the baby. “I do. Come back quickly.” 

With some regret – he’d only just came back, and he doesn’t like leaving her like this, not after just being done with his contract – he leaves the inn again.

— 

Ciri doesn’t have any younger siblings, but she had always found it nice to look after babies. Sometimes, when the maids brought them in, she played with them while she was sneaking out of her lessons. The history of Cintra would get boring, and she had wanted to stay in her rooms, listening to the gossip of the maids. It didn’t really matter to them whether she was there or not in those moments, and aside from the times she snuck out of the palace, those were real moments of freedom. 

It’s strange to think back to Cintra now. It still chokes her sometimes to think of it, but she’s working through it. And now that she has Geralt, she has the feeling that everything will be alright. 

She bounces the baby on her lap as the maid of the inn brings in hot water to fill the tub in the adjacent washroom. It’s a nice touch that Geralt got them the room with a private washroom. The baby giggles slightly, a soft sound that makes Ciri smile. 

“You’re adorable, aren’t you?” She pokes the baby’s cheek and grins as it laughs again. For now, the baby seems to be pretty mild-tempered, which relieves her. She might have volunteered to take care of it, but she doesn’t know how to handle a baby when it’s in full tantrum, and frankly she isn’t really looking forward to discovering that. Well. If discovery of it there is. Geralt had seemed pretty adamant that they would leave it in the next town over. She supposes it’s fair; after all, they can’t exactly take a baby with them on the Path. 

“Miss?” The maid calls her and Ciri turns her head to look at her. “The bath is filled. Do you need any help?” 

“Oh,” Ciri blushes slightly. “No, it’s fine, it’s for my father, when he comes back.” 

“You are the witcher’s daughter then? That must be quite an exciting life! Have you seen a lot of monsters?” 

The girl walks closer and smiles again. She can’t be much older than Ciri, maybe two years more at most, and she is gorgeous. Tall, with brown hair braided in a crown, she looks at Ciri directly. There isn’t any recognition on her face, nothing that seems to indicate that she knows she has the former princess of Cintra in front of her. Ciri feels less like a lion cub and more like a butterfly when the girl looks at her. 

“I um, I haven’t really, no. My father doesn’t really want me to come along on hunts just yet.” 

“That must be nice though, to travel around everywhere. You must have seen everything! That’s so exciting.” The girl smiles again, and the butterflies in Ciri’s stomach take flight again. “Is that your sibling?” 

“No, um, Ge- my father found him during his last hunt, and we are bringing him to the next town over? To find his family.” 

“Oh! That’s so sweet of you two! The witcher’s really a friend of humanity, isn’t he? We had a bard that sang the song a couple of days ago, he was really good too. Though, he got really sad by the end of it and started drinking like no other. Could barely get himself back to his room. My father ended up kicking him out…” 

She looks pensive for a second and then turns back to Ciri. “You want help with the baby though? I’ve got a younger brother and my ma was really sick when he was born so I took care of him a lot.” 

“I… Sure.” Ciri can’t help herself, she wants to keep the girl around. “I’m Fiona, I forgot to introduce myself.” 

“I’m Helen,” the girl – _Helen_ – says and looks at the baby. “You want to wash the baby? He looks kind of dirty.” 

“Yes! I was waiting for my father to come back with proper soap and everything, but I think we can rinse him first, it can’t really hurt.” 

Ciri goes with Helen to the washroom, and smiles as Helen gets a small tub just big enough for a baby. 

“Here, we use one of these for babies who need to be washed,” she says, and pours some of the steaming hot water from the bath into it, before adding more cold water. “We don’t want the baby to be burnt by the water.” 

“Right,” Ciri nods and hands him over to Helen as she sits down on the floor next to her, pulling her sleeves up. “I’ve never really cared for a baby by myself before.” 

“I assumed so. You looked a bit lost,” Helen winks and hands her the baby back. “I’ll tell you how to take care of one, alright? It’s not too busy. Plus, this one is quiet, it’s so nice. My brother was always wailing and jumping at every sound.” 

Ciri starts to slowly unbundle the baby, and to take off his soiled clothes, and Geralt was right, he does stink. 

“He hasn’t been washed in days,” Helen’s nose is scrunched up in disgust but she still looks amused and helps Ciri with the undressing. “Poor kid. Your father found him while hunting the monster that’s been taking people, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Ciri nods and slowly puts the blinking baby in the water, starting to bathe him. “And we’re lucky he brought you back, isn’t it?” 

She grins widely at the baby, but he only blinks back, not seeming to understand her words. Strange. She had thought he was old enough to recognize sounds and people talking to him. 

“Fiona?” Helen tilts her head when she sees that Ciri has gone silent and is frowning. “What’s wrong?” 

“I was just thinking… The baby hasn’t been reacting to sounds much since I got him. I mean, it’s only been half an hour or so, but I remember babies usually trying to babble much more and moving their heads when there were other sounds… He just looks at the person holding him unless something moves.” 

“Oh, you think that he can’t hear?” 

“Maybe?” Ciri shrugs. “There were a few deaf people at the cas- where I grew up, before my father came to get me. Never met a deaf baby though. Can you hold him?” 

Helen nods and holds the baby in her hands, smiling at him and tickling him gently. Ciri places herself so that the baby will still see her, and she moves her hands in the way one of Eist’s advisors taught her when she was younger. It takes a few seconds for her to remember, but she slowly mimes the word “hello” while making sure the baby can see. When he sees it, he babbles happily and tries to repeat the gesture. 

“Well that confirms it then,” Helen says gently. “Come on, I’ll show you how to wash him, and when your dad gets here, you can apply products.” 

Together, the two girls wash the baby, giggling a bit when he frowns and splashes water at them. Not much later, they hear the door to the adjoining room open, and Helen straightens up, Ciri standing as well while holding the baby in her arms. 

“Ciri?” Geralt’s voice is slightly worried, something that no one else but her would pick up on. “You in there?” 

“I’m just washing the baby,” she answers, and tries not to be sad when Helen moves away slightly. Geralt just called her ‘Ciri’ and not ‘Fiona’, and Helen has probably realized but… Helen only looks at her and bites her lips.

“I’ll leave you then,” Helen looks down and then, quickly, she dashes back close to Ciri and kisses her cheek. “Don’t hesitate if you need anything more.” 

She is out of the room before Ciri can get over the fact that she was just kissed on the cheek by the older girl. She is still blushing by the time Geralt is in the washroom. 

“Everything alright in here?” He has an amused lilt in his voice and she blushes more.

“Yes! Did you get the products I told you?” 

They wash the baby and apply a gentle salve where some of his skin was a little reddened, though not yet raw, from being in the dirty clothing, and put him in a new, clean smock, and then Ciri leaves Geralt to wash himself. Dinner is a quiet affair, and when she tells Geralt the baby might be deaf, he only shrugs and keeps eating. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so she shrugs it off too. Helen brings her a plate of pureed carrots for the baby, and Ciri is blushing again, to Geralt’s amusement. 

“Don’t you dare say anything,” she tells him. 

“I would never,” he grins a bit, the corner of his mouth tilting up. 

It’s when they try to go to bed that things start getting complicated. The baby begins to fuss, and no matter how much Ciri rocks him and tries to soothe him, the baby cries. He doesn’t stop, he keeps crying, and it might not be a high pitched wailing, but it’s loud, and Geralt is tired, Ciri can see it. She tries her best, cuddling him close, and even singing, but she stops herself immediately. The baby is deaf, she reminds herself, as she rocks him and he continues fretting. Singing to him won’t make him stop crying just like that. 

“Is he ever going to stop?” Geralt grunts. 

“He’s just a baby,” Ciri defends him, but she is starting to be tired too and she has no idea what to do. “Oh shi– shoot what if we can’t get him to sleep?” 

“That’s not an option,” Geralt grumbles. “Alright, pass him over, I’ll see if there is anything I can do.” 

She’s a bit confused as Geralt takes the baby in his arms and rocks him gently, albeit a bit awkwardly. There is something so sweet at seeing him like this, awkwardly trying to soothe a baby. 

“Here,” he says to her, “get in bed, and I’ll join you as soon as I’ve got the situation under control.” 

“It’s a baby, Geralt,” she smiles. “Not a monster you need to vanquish.” 

“I’m aware,” he grumbles as he holds the baby against his chest carefully so that he can press a light kiss on top of her hair. “Get in your bed.”

She does as he asks, and when she slips under the covers, she hears Geralt softly rumbling something to the baby. She can’t hear what he says, but she sees the baby still pressed against his chest as Geralt settles back into his own bed, and Ciri grins. Geralt likes the baby more than he lets on, she thinks as she sees the baby slowly calm down the more he talks to him. 

When she falls asleep, it’s to Geralt softly talking to the baby. 

—

The next day, they arrive in the town the alderman had directed them to in the early afternoon. Geralt is tired, but Ciri is sitting on Roach, looking happy as she holds the sleeping baby in her arms. The baby drifts in and out of sleep, sometimes needing food and sometimes simply just gazing at her or Geralt. He has to admit that the baby is pretty cute, when it doesn’t stink and smell like shit and blood. Geralt doesn’t want to admit it, but he doesn’t find the baby half as annoying as he thought he would. Sure, they need to stop to feed him a couple of times, but he remains pretty quiet. 

Despite the deafness, the baby has found a way to, somehow, “listen” to them. Ciri knows a few words in sign language and that’s how she tries to communicate with him. The baby also, seemingly, likes to feel Geralt talking. The previous night, he had calmed down when Geralt had held him close to his chest and had talked. It had been such a new experience for Geralt. When he had gotten Ciri, she had certainly needed his protection, but she had already been quite independent. Even when they had reached Kaer Morhen and she had started training, it had taken her some time to seek Geralt out for comfort. He hadn’t been great at it at first, but, now that she trusts him and he trusts her? It feels nice to see her be back to some form of happiness. 

They spend the afternoon trying to find out if there is any family that had a woman with a baby who disappeared, but the search is fruitless. The baby is getting agitated, and Geralt as well. He is back to holding him, Ciri holding onto Roach’s bridle and yawning a bit. She had looked so happy the night before, and though she’s never said anything, he had seen her looking with interest at other girls her age. He remembers that feeling, and he wants her to feel safe. So he just encourages her and teases her, hopes that she knows it.

“Come on Geralt,” she sighs as the sun starts to set, evening coming early in the late season. “Let’s get to the inn. The baby needs to get some rest, and so do we.” 

Geralt nods and follows her towards the inn they had located earlier. A few locals are gathered in front and Ciri nods towards the stables. 

“I’ll get Roach settled in, join you inside?” 

He nods. “Be careful.” 

“Always am,” she answers cheerily, and Geralt rolls his eyes but smiles slightly anyway. He has been smiling so much more since he met her. 

He pushes the door to the inn open and he stops in the doorway. 

In the middle of the room, playing the lute and singing his heart out, the way he has always done and the way Geralt has immortalized him in his memory, Jaskier stands, absolutely beautiful. He is singing a new song, one Geralt doesn’t remember hearing before, and that idea hurts a bit. He used to be Jaskier’s friend, and now… Now he doesn’t deserve that title anymore. He hurt him, on that mountain, and Geralt can’t forgive himself. He can’t allow himself to forget the sad, defeated tone as Jaskier had said he would see him around. 

He feels someone pushing at his back and looks behind to see Ciri, looking at him with a frown. Then, her whole demeanour changes as she hears the music. Something in her eyes shifts, something that makes him think to the early mornings, when she wouldn’t talk about the memories of Cintra she had. And suddenly she is off running. 

“Jaskier!” she shouts and collides with the bard, hugging him tightly. 

It takes barely a split second for Jaskier to recognize her. “Ciri,” he breathes out, relief evident in his voice as he hugs the girl back, his audience watching the scene avidly. 

Then Jaskier looks up, and his eyes lock with Geralt’s. The witcher wants to take a step back, to run away from the pain and anger he reads in Jaskier’s face, but he can’t. So he looks at Jaskier, ignores the way his whole body feels feverish, and nods. 

“It’s good to see you, Jaskier.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, chapter two~

Ciri is still holding onto Jaskier, her smile wide and her shoulders more relaxed than Geralt has seen since they left Kaer Morhen at the beginning of the year. He briefly wonders if that’s because she doesn’t feel safe around him, but he shrugs those doubts away. She had chosen to go with him, not stay at Kaer Morhen with Vesemir, and while there are a lot of dangers out here, she has always seemed content enough to be traveling with him. 

They are sitting at a table of the inn, and Jaskier’s arm is tight around Ciri’s shoulders, his smile fond and tender when he looks at her. Whenever he looks at Geralt though, there is something like anger in his eyes, but mostly like hurt and pain and all those emotions that Geralt never wanted to see again on Jaskier. He caused that, and he doesn’t know how to make it better. _If_ he can make it better. He can’t exactly beg for forgiveness now, not in the middle of an inn, not when half of the people here are still looking at them, curious as to why the bard stopped his performance. 

“You’re still popular, I see,” Geralt grunts out. 

It’s not meant as an insult, but there is a bite when Jaskier answers. “Yes, I am. I don’t need you in order to do well, Geralt.”

Ciri looks a bit confused as she lets go of Jaskier. “Aren’t you two friends? Jaskier always told stories of you when he came by in the winter.” 

Geralt is a bit surprised. “I didn’t know you went to Cintra in the winters.” 

“No, of course you didn’t,” Jaskier snorts and Ciri only looks more confused. “Someone had to make sure Ciri was doing alright. You certainly weren’t concerned, and I grew attached. Ciri is lovely, and she has always been. And yes, darling,” he tells Ciri. “We used to be friends. But apparently, my friendship was more of a curse for Geralt over there.” 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Of course he is angry. How could he not be? Geralt is angry at himself, and he knows the bard has every right to be furious. 

“Jaskier I-”

“Is that a baby in your arms?” Jaskier cuts in, eyes wide, as the baby Geralt is still holding wiggles slightly, waking up. “Geralt, how many children are you acquiring in my absence? I sure hope you won’t put the blame for this one on me.” 

The comment stings, especially now that Geralt has gotten to know, and love, Ciri. He should never have said all of that to Jaskier. He should never have blamed his friend, the only person outside of the witchers who had stuck by him for years without tiring. He wonders if he still has a chance at redemption. He can’t stand the idea that he hurt Jaskier beyond repair. Geralt is aware that his feelings for Jaskier go beyond friendship; he isn’t completely blind to his own emotions. Well. It _had_ taken him waking up with the bard’s name on his lips and tears in his eyes after nightmares of being unable to save the soft-spoken man from various monsters for him to fully understand, but the point is, he had, in the end, realized. 

“Yes, I found him while killing a Cyclops.” 

“And you randomly decided to bring a baby with you.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow and looks down at Ciri. “I suppose you must be the more talkative one then, mind telling me what happened?” 

Ciri laughs a bit and nods. She starts explaining to Jaskier the events of the previous day, and soon she’s taking the baby back in her arms and introducing him to Jaskier. And then Jaskier takes the baby in his arms, and _oh_. Isn’t that a sight. Jaskier’s face lights up when the baby reaches out for him and grabs his fingers, and then he giggles. Jaskier _giggles_ and if that isn’t the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever heard, he doesn’t know what else counts as such. 

“Well isn’t he just adorable,” Jaskier coos and grins. “He is a sweetheart too, aren’t you?” 

He lifts the baby and plays with him, and Geralt can only watch helplessly. He knows it’s ridiculous, but he feels himself fall a little bit more for the bard. Ciri smirks at him and he glares back, but she keeps smirking. 

“So,” Jaskier turns back to Geralt after a few seconds. “What are you planning on doing with this poor baby now?”

His eyes have softened and he looks a little bit less angry as he bounces a happy baby on his lap. 

“We were planning on finding his family. We were told he was from here.” 

“I would have heard if there were any family missing,” Jaskier says and pokes the baby’s belly, smiling brightly at the peal of laughter he gets. “Especially if there was such a charming fellow that had disappeared. I’ve been here for a couple of days and heard nothing of disappearances. I think the alderman played you for a fool, Geralt.” 

Geralt grunts. “Is that so.” 

“You are too kind to humans,” Jaskier shrugs. “And you always fancy yourself a rescuer of humanity. Don’t even try to deny it, Geralt, the number of times I’ve had to negotiate payment for you because you took it upon yourself to rid some miserly village of a monster…” 

He is right, and that had always been one of the greatest things about traveling with Jaskier. Because Jaskier had always been protective and angry on Geralt’s behalf, when Geralt had done nothing to deserve it. There had been many arguments during which Geralt told Jaskier to knock it off, to stop arguing for more, but Jaskier had always insisted that Geralt was an idiot who knew not his worth. 

“Right,” Geralt sighs. “Then I don’t have any idea of what to do with him.” 

“I heard there is an orphanage in Crunne,” Jaskier says with a shrug. “Maybe you should bring him there. I know they wouldn’t take him here. And knowing you, you won’t be riding back to the town where you found this baby.”

Again, Geralt wants to hate that Jaskier is right. He hates himself for pushing away the only person who had truly wanted to know him, beyond his outward appearance and reputation. Jaskier had only ever judged him by his actions and his motivations, seeing into his heart despite his reticence; it had been a respite for Geralt. Jaskier complained and bemoaned everything, and never stopped speaking, but he also had a keen eye and was good at observing, and had never stopped believing in Geralt’s worth. 

“So, I’ll take you two to Crunne,” Jaskier says with a nod, and then looks back at the baby. “Well, you three, I suppose.” 

“You don’t have to,” Geralt protests. “After everything I—” 

“Not everything is about you, Geralt,” Jaskier snaps slightly and then relaxes as Ciri gives him a surprised look. “You two are clearly out of your depth, and Crunne is at least two days away by horse. With the two of you, and an infant, it’ll at least take three days. Are you two confident you can care for a baby who isn’t even a year old for three, if not four, days?”

Ciri and Geralt exchange a look, and Jaskier sighs. “Exactly. I’m coming with, then. This child needs at the very least _one_ responsible adult.” 

—

Jaskier has no idea why he offered to come with. He absolutely adores Ciri, that much is true, and he wants to make sure the baby will be alright, but is he willing to be with Geralt for four days? After the mountain and Geralt’s harsh words, Jaskier had half-hoped that he would never cross paths with the White Wolf again. Though, he had also desperately hoped that he would. Every single inch of his body, of his soul, has missed him. At first, it had eaten away at him, made him cry and toss in his sleep, made him drown his sorrows in alcohol and sex until he couldn’t remember where his body ended and the others’ began. And then it had dawned on him slowly that he hadn’t been mourning merely the loss of a friend, of a very good friend. He was mourning the loss of the love he had been pining after for years. So Jaskier had forced himself back into singing shape, and he had taken to the roads again. 

It doesn’t explain why he has agreed to share Geralt and Ciri’s room for the night, doesn’t explain why he only shrugged when Ciri said she would sleep with the baby while he and Geralt shared a bed. 

Nonetheless, he walks into the bedroom without letting any of his struggle appear on his face. It’s funny how, over time, he has become an excellent liar. More than he expected himself to. 

“I’ll go wash him up,” Ciri’s voice is happy and she hugs Jaskier. “I’m so glad you’re coming with us.” 

“I’m glad too.” He kisses the top of her head and smiles. “You want any help with the cleaning?” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll be alright! You two can talk and stay here.” 

With a quick hug for Geralt, she leaves the room, and Jaskier finds himself alone with Geralt for the first time in over a year. 

“Ciri clearly loves you,” Geralt says, or rather grunts, as he tosses his bag on the side of the bed they’ll be sharing for the night. “She hadn’t mentioned she knew you.” 

Jaskier isn’t sure if this is meant to be insulting or not. Before, he would have said that Geralt was just one to state facts like those without caring, or noticing, that it made people uncomfortable. Now though, he isn’t sure. Perhaps Geralt is still angry at him, still blames him for everything. Maybe this is just Geralt’s way of saying that he isn’t welcome on the road with them. 

“Did you talk to her about me? Or ask her who sang her lullabies when she was a child and had nightmares?” He snorts at Geralt’s slightly incredulous look. “That’s what I thought. Perhaps she didn’t mention me simply because she didn’t want to think about her past life now that she’s found you. It mustn’t be easy for her to remember all she has lost.” 

Geralt hums and moves around the bed, removing his boots. “I would have told her, if she had.” 

“Told her what? That you also knew me? She knew that already. I used to tell her all about you.” _Before you broke my heart_. Jaskier doesn’t say it, but he is fairly certain the thought is loud enough to convey all of it. He mimics Geralt’s movement, sitting with his back turned to him to remove his shoes. 

“I meant, I would have told her that I wronged you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is steady, and it fills the silent room loudly. The witcher isn’t exactly one for reserve when there is no need for it; after all, he stands tall and proud, his very presence a mockery of what is, or isn’t, human. He is beautiful, Jaskier knows that, without even looking back. Beautiful, and terrible.

“Ah, would you have? I recall you being quite stubborn when it came to admitting that you could be wrong. Or simply being stubborn in saying that you and I had been friends.” 

_Let’s give it another decade or so_ , Jaskier had joked, half drunk, before the Djinn had attacked him. He didn’t get a decade more with Geralt. He got a handful of years, and now he gets a handful of days, and that will be it. No more witcher and his bard. There is the witcher and his daughter now, and the bard, alone. 

“I was wrong,” Geralt continues as Jaskier undoes his doublet, his back still turned to him. “Jaskier, please.” 

Geralt’s hand falls on his shoulder, and it makes him startle. He hadn’t expected contact with the witcher, not again. He isn’t afraid of Geralt, not in the slightest, but the way his body reacts to the touch _is_. Still, he wants more, even after all the heartbreak and the pain. _Like heroics and heartbreak,_ he remembers himself saying to Geralt, on the way out of Posada. How fucking right had he been that day. What an idiot he had been already. 

“Let me apologize,” Geralt says, taking away his hand. “Let me explain myself and correct my wrongs.” 

“Speak then,” Jaskier answers, but he still doesn’t turn around. He isn’t sure he is strong enough to look Geralt in the eyes and not be overwhelmed by his desire to reach for him, to touch and caress. 

It’s strange how absence has made him more of a lovesick fool than he would have thought. Before Geralt, he had never been one to cry the loss of a lover for days on end. Yes, he had been saddened when the Countess de Stael had left him, and each time one of his muses did, he felt a melancholy settle over him, but none of them compared even a little bit to Geralt.

“I should never have blamed you,” Geralt starts, stops, breathes in slowly before continuing. “It was wrong of me to do so. For years, you stayed by my side and tried to help me as best as you could, and I was ungrateful, always. None of what happened was your fault. Yes, I was in Cintra because you needed a bodyguard, but… You didn’t make me claim the law of surprise. It wasn’t your fault either that I bound myself to Yennefer. You have made my reputation better, you have helped me, and I insulted you, treated you as lesser.” 

Jaskier doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on the window that allows light into the room. From the washroom down the hall, he can hear Ciri laughing with the baby, the splash of water as the baby moves around. He is waiting for Geralt to say more, but he doesn’t know what he needs to hear exactly. Does he want the witcher to say he loves him? It would be ridiculous of him to expect that. 

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, nor do I deserve your friendship. I hurt you, and I deeply regret it. I… I wanted to look for you, after what I said, to apologize and tell you that I… That I was an asshole, that you were right and I should have listened to you.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Jaskier hates that his voice is hurt and bitter, that he is digging his nails into his palms to keep himself grounded. “Why didn’t you even ask for me? See where I was, see what I was doing? You didn’t search for me. You left me to think I was dirt under your boot, Geralt.” 

“Ciri needed me,” Geralt protests, before he sighs deeply. “I should have looked for you in the spring. I shouldn’t have gone on as if nothing happened. I can’t excuse my actions. I can’t change the past, and I can’t ask you to accept my apology. It’s your right to refuse it, but I just… I needed to say it. And I’m happy that you are accompanying us. Even if it is only to stop a baby from being brought to an imminent death due to my total incompetence at taking care of it.” 

Jaskier snorts a bit, his shoulders relaxing. “You would do fine. Maybe. I’m just not willing to tempt fate on that bit, if you don’t mind. And…” 

He turns his head to Geralt, looking at him over his shoulder. The gods forgive Jaskier, but he truly believes that this man is the most beautiful man on earth. He is bathed in the last drops of sunlight, but his face is half in the shadows, and the gold of his eyes is truly beautiful. It’s always been a weakness of Jaskier’s, that tender golden settling on him. He knows Geralt isn’t exactly fond of it, that he sees it as just another side of his mutations, but when Jaskier sees them, he can only think of warmth and home. Geralt had been home to him for many years, even if Jaskier had never voiced it. Jaskier lost his own home years ago, and despite winters spent either in Cintra or Oxenfurt, he had never been able to call either place his home. 

“I forgive you. For what you said. I know…” He sighs too, a bitter chuckle building its way out of his throat. “I know that I have not always been the best companion to you, but you and I have had many a good adventure anyway. I should not reproach you for not looking for me. I am glad that Ciri had you, and that you took care of her. She seems happy with you, and considering that I thought her dead since the fall of Cintra… I’m glad. But Geralt…”

He stops again. He can’t look at Geralt anymore, can’t take the soft hope he reads in those eyes. What happened to the Geralt hardened by years alone? Ciri’s tender disposition, her determination and endless love, have changed him so much in the space of a year… He is astonished by it, and his heart only beats faster. He is so glad he cannot blush, for he is sure he would be red if he could. 

Turning his eyes back to the window, he finishes what he had been saying. “You can’t treat me like that anymore. You have my friendship, unfortunately I think you always will. No matter how much you hurt me, I will always come back to you. I don’t need a Djinn’s wish for that, Destiny has fated us this way, and… I don’t want to fight it. It broke me too much the last time. But you cannot treat me like that anymore. And if I ever see you treating Ciri that way, I will tear you to shreds, Geralt.” He looks the witcher in the eyes. “If I ever hear or see you lashing out at her in that way, I will make sure that there is no longer any part of you to be found again.” 

He almost considers stopping there, but he needs Geralt to understand. “In fact, if I ever see or hear you treat _anyone_ that way, and yes, I include Yennefer in this, despite the fact that she and I have our quarrels, I will rip you apart and give your body to the birds of prey waiting for a feast.” 

There is something in Geralt’s eyes that should be fear, but isn’t, not really. Something like challenge, and heat, but there is also understanding and acceptance. It’s the first look that nearly makes Jaskier shiver. Because it reminds him of the way a predator looks, all teeth and delight, when its prey fights back. But he isn’t prey, and Geralt doesn’t hunt him, doesn’t chase him, not in any way. No matter how disappointing the thought is. 

“I understand,” Geralt answers. “It won’t happen again. I can at least swear that, because I do not want to ever hurt you again like that. You’re… You are my friend, and I value you.” 

There is no more time to say anything after that, because Ciri slips back into the room, smiling, and they quickly go to bed after that. Even Jaskier is exhausted, and the baby nearly sleeps through the night. It’s a small celebration, and Jaskier doesn’t at all watch when Geralt picks the baby up and soothes him, talking to him in a soft voice. He doesn’t think about why his heart is still beating madly when Geralt slips back into bed and his hand brushes against his back. 

—

Ciri has been watching Jaskier and Geralt the whole day, and she can’t begin to understand why they are being such huge idiots. Clearly, the night before, they had talked, and Geralt had apologized for whatever he had done that had made Jaskier more upset than any time Ciri had seen him before. She had had a bit of a hard time, to be quite honest, with reconciling the sweet, gentle bard from her memory with the bitter and angry man who had asserted himself in front of Geralt like he was defying the other man to say anything to him. 

Now though, now she just finds them absolutely _stupid_. She sits on top of Roach, holding the baby in her arms, and Geralt and Jaskier are walking beside her, sometimes talking but mostly staying out of each other’s way, and Ciri has had enough of it. She can see, clear as day, that Geralt absolutely adores Jaskier, and she had always known that Jaskier loved Geralt. She hadn’t thought it a secret, not when he talked so lovingly about the witcher whenever he was at court. She had thought they were _together_ , until she had met Geralt and had found him alone. And then he had never mentioned Jaskier, so she had assumed they had parted on bad terms, and never brought him up.

Clearly, she had been right, but now, they are being even _more_ idiotic, dancing around each other and pretending that things aren’t different. She doesn’t know how they were before all of… whatever happened between them happened, but she knows Jaskier. She knows how much he loves to talk, and how much he loves to sing. She has never seen him this quiet before, only humming every so often. 

“Jask,” she calls out, pouting slightly. She is not above using methods that have worked on him since she was a toddler to get what she wants. “Would you mind holding the baby for a little while? He is starting to fuss a bit, and I think he likes it when people sing or talk to him while holding him.” 

The bard chuckles but nods. “I haven’t had such a young audience since you were a baby yourself,” he tells her as she leans over to give him the baby. “I’ll do my best. Let’s see, what lullabies did I sing to you and you enjoyed…” 

She hops off Roach after that, taking the horse’s bridle in her hand, and ignoring Geralt’s surprised look. She likes walking too, and Roach is still a bit testy with her sometimes, even after over a year knowing each other. 

”What’s gotten into you?” he asks when she doesn’t look at him. “Not feeling up to riding anymore?” 

“Roach will unfortunately, never love me as she loves you,” she sighs with a grin, and hears Jaskier snort behind her. “Also, my neck was starting to cramp and I thought I wouldn’t have to strain to see you two being so idiotic if I was lower to the ground.” 

Jaskier gasps. “Who are you calling an idiot now,” he says and lightly kicks at her shin, but she winks and sidesteps his kick. 

“You, my dear bard! Your conversation is so stilted, I thought I should join you two and give you some of my lovely wits to help with all the tension in the air.” 

Geralt grunts, amused. “And you are more charming perhaps?” 

Ciri gives him a mock offended look. “I very much am! Raised at the court of Cintra, I excel at charm!” 

Jaskier laughs, the baby putting his hands on his throat. “You, excelling at charm? I would like to see that! I remember you hating balls and banquets so much that you once found your way behind the musicians accompanying me, to the dismay of your poor mother, who spent the evening looking for you.” 

She blushes slightly at the memory. “I was only five!” 

“And you already had such a fiery spirit,” he teases and walks in front of her, his hands still holding the baby. “So, what shall I sing?” 

“What about that ballad about the wolf and his shadow? I loved that one when I was a child!” 

“Oh,” Jaskier quiets a bit, his face somber for an instant. “Do you mean Shadowed Paws?” 

“Yes,” Ciri says gently. “But if you would rather sing something else, I’m sure it will be as lovely!” 

“No, no.” He smiles and shifts to hold the baby with one arm, mussing her hair lightly. “It’s a beautiful song. I’ll sing it for you, of course. Anything for you, my dear.” 

There is a sadness in his eyes that she doesn’t understand. He doesn’t look at Geralt, doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t avoiding the witcher’s gaze. It’s a bit strange. Ciri had always thought that Shadowed Paws was one of Jaskier’s most beautiful love ballads. The story of a wolf’s shadow that was bound to one who didn’t want it, but then they grew fond of one another, fond and in love, had resonated with her when she had been a child, who had seen it as a possibility for her to still find love whenever her grandmother would marry her off. 

And then she realizes. The sadness in Jaskier’s eyes is because this had been a hopeful love ballad. A hope that, one day, Geralt would love him back, would appreciate him beyond just friendship. How had she not noticed before? Had it been because she had been just a child, not hearing the nuance and probably not knowing enough of Geralt beyond Jaskier’s tales to see that _he_ was the wolf of the song? She can tell that Geralt loves him, or at least she hopes that’s what the yearning and longing in his eyes mean, but she doesn’t know if, whatever happened, Jaskier can truly ever forgive it. 

She doesn’t have the time to tell him that it’s fine, that he shouldn’t force himself, before he starts singing.

The lyrics haven’t changed since Ciri was a child, but there is something so heartbreakingly different when Jaskier sings it now. It starts slow, giving the story of the wolf realizing it has a shadow, and evolves into something else. She remembers being captivated by how _alive_ the characters in that song are, and that hasn’t changed. She can hear the echoing longing in the bard’s voice, and when he reaches the final line, when the wolf and shadow are one and united against the world, she can hear the pain behind the words. 

The baby in Jaskier’s arms looks absolutely awed as he keeps his hands against Jaskier’s throat as the bard sings. Jaskier’s voice is as beautiful as she remembers it, silky and tender. She is shivering by the end of the song, and tears have gathered in her eyes. The song brings back memories of warm afternoons spent with her mother and Jaskier, of dancing with Pavetta and singing along to more bawdy songs in which Jaskier replaced the offensive language with fruits. 

“Are you alright, darling?” Jaskier asks with some concern, handing the baby to a surprised Geralt and taking her in his arms. “Was that too much?” 

“No,” she sobs slightly, holding him tightly. “Not at all. I’m so happy you’re here with us.” 

He smiles tenderly and raises her chin. “I’m happy to be with you two, Ciri, I’m so happy to know you are alive and well. And you’ve grown into such an admirable young woman, I am so proud of you, my darling.” 

It makes her sob even more, for some reason, to hear him say that, and she hugs him tighter. She is so happy to have this piece of her old life back, even if it’s stranger than before, even if there is something odd about Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship.

—

Making camp that evening is relatively easy. They have their own tasks, and Ciri, who declared herself the official baby minder, has finished cleaning and changing the baby as best as she can, while Geralt and Jaskier are attempting to make a proper dinner out of whatever they have in their bags. 

Since her earlier outburst, Jaskier has been keeping an eye on Ciri. He is worried about setting her off again, worried that his presence in her life only makes it harder for her to move on from Cintra and into her new life with Geralt. He wants the best for her, loves her as if she were his daughter, but if she needs him to leave to be able to become a proper witcher, to be able to enjoy her life with Geralt, then he will. He loves her more than he cares to admit. After all, isn’t it pathetic that he got so attached to a young girl he only saw a couple of months a year, at the very most? 

“Where have you traveled then?” Geralt asks politely as he finishes stoking the fire properly for them to grill some of the mushrooms they had found on the way, as well as roast the two rabbits Geralt had killed. “While we… While Ciri and I traveled, where did you go?” 

“I went to Cidaris for a bit,” Jaskier answers, helping with the fire and trying to not stare too much at the way it bathes Geralt in golden light. “Got a bit tired after awhile though.” 

“Cidaris,” Geralt repeats with a frown. “Isn’t that where that other bard, Valdo Marx, is?” 

“Why, I’m surprised that you know. Yes, good old Valdo is one of the bards of the court of Cidaris.” 

“Why would you even go there then?” Geralt tilts his head. “You hate him. You even wished him dead.” 

Jaskier chances a look at the witcher, and finds nothing but genuine wonder and concern in the eyes of the man he loves. He hates how much it affects him, that Geralt remembers details such as those. He hates that he wants to break into a smile and launch into a story, but he can’t. But he also can’t loathe himself for wanting the proximity to Geralt. In all of his life, in the maddening length of it, Jaskier has never found anyone that could hold a candle to the way Geralt makes him feel. 

“I do, yes.” He hesitates a bit, bites his lips. It can’t hurt too much to say it, to make Geralt realize how much Jaskier suffered during their separation. “But well. There is nothing like a tumble in bed with the man you despise most to set yourself right again.” 

Geralt gapes at him, and for the first time, Jaskier sees surprise and hurt mixing in the golden gaze. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the look vanishes, leaving only Geralt’s granite look, the one that highlights his jaw and his regal profile. Jaskier knows that look. It’s not Geralt’s blank look, it’s his secretly hurt look. Something about those words hurt him, but Jaskier can’t figure out what. Perhaps it is the realization that Jaskier was in such a state of mind that he was willing to sleep with the man he most hates. Or perhaps it is simply that Jaskier has lost his ability to know what each of Geralt’s expressions mean. 

“I see. I… I hope you do not need to be set back on your feet through those methods again.” 

“It all depends on whatever you do,” Jaskier hums lightly as the flat stone he had set for the mushrooms starts heating up properly. “But I doubt it. He was quite the terrible partner, and my heart wasn’t in it anyway.” 

“Waiting for someone else?” Geralt’s question is almost hopeful, almost interested, but then he looks away. “The Countess de Stael, I assume?” 

Jaskier laughs this time. “The gods forgive me, but no, never again. I am free of that woman, blessed may she be, and I am never going back to her side again!” 

He doesn’t answer the first part of the question though, doesn’t want to admit that he had been mourning Geralt, that his heart would always be Geralt’s. He knows that Geralt’s heart belongs to Yennefer, and with time, he has come to respect that. She is a powerful mage, and she has ambitions that terrify him, but she and Geralt make sense, in a way that makes him hurt a bit inside. They are two intensely powerful beings, and they share a humanity that he doesn’t. Not that either of them know. The incident with the Djinn had proved clear to him that no one could tell that he wasn’t human. 

He puts the mushrooms to cook while Geralt rotates the rabbits, and looks at him. 

“What about you? What happened when you got Ciri?” 

“I brought her back to Kaer Morhen,” he answers with a fond look for his adopted daughter, and what Jaskier wouldn’t give to have that fond look directed at him, “and I trained her.” 

Ciri laughs at that, and Jaskier realizes that she’s been listening to them since the beginning, despite the fact that she was playing and taking care of the baby. 

“Lambert kicked my ass, and Eskel taught me all his dirty moves,” she tells Jaskier, jerking her head to Geralt. “That one was too afraid of hurting me. Vesemir said he was acting like an old fool, and that’s what everyone called him for days on end.” 

Vesemir. It makes Jaskier smile to hear the name. He wonders briefly if the man is the same as he was the last time Jaskier saw him. 

“Well I see your training has been useful at least,” he chuckles. “Geralt’s brothers must be adequate teachers.” 

He knows of Eskel and Lambert, well enough at least. He had managed to drag a few stories out of Geralt whenever he was somewhat drunk, and he had heard the fondness in his tone as he referred to the other witchers of the Wolf School. Jaskier had always wanted to meet them, to see if they held up to the legends he heard from Geralt. And although he had heard quite a few stories about them on his own travels he had never crossed paths with either. Always Geralt, never any other, not in any recent years. Destiny must have been having quite a laugh. 

“They are barely adequate,” Geralt grumbles, shooting his adopted daughter what would be a glare, if there weren’t so much fondness in it. “Eskel’s tricks are ridiculous.” 

“And yet, they work on every monster you’ve let me fight!” She sticks her tongue out at him and then back at the baby. “Look, the baby agrees with me!” 

The baby is currently grinning happily, mimicking Ciri’s own expression. It’s quite the adorable scene, and Jaskier finds himself chuckling fondly. 

“Say, shouldn’t we name the baby?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side. “He probably had one already but well, we can’t do much better right now.”

“Name the baby?” Geralt frowns. “Why would we do that? We are going to be dropping him off at the orphanage as soon as we can.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t change that calling him ‘the baby’ all the time is quite exhausting, don’t you think? At least with a name, it would be easy to refer to him as something other than ‘the baby’. Also, ‘the baby’ is a mouthful, and I would know because I’ve just had to say it three times in a row. Three times, Geralt!” 

Geralt looks a bit amused, and it warms something inside Jaskier, to know that perhaps they are on the mend. Maybe this little trip, and this baby, will be what repairs their friendship, and helps them move forward again. Perhaps, they could travel the next year together, after winter thaws and Geralt goes back on the Path with Ciri. After he has left Oxenfurt, since that’s probably where he will spend this winter. Never again Cidaris. 

“I think Jaskier is right,” Ciri says with a bright smile. “A name would be great! Even if we don’t keep him, it would be nice to be able to call him something. I agree that ‘the baby’ isn’t exactly the most easy way to refer to him.” 

“We can just call it the luggage,” Geralt grumbles, but it’s more for show and he snorts when Ciri kicks him in the knee. “Alright, alright, I yield.” 

“Perfect,” Jaskier claps and stands up, almost wanting to grab his lute and play. This feels like the perfect moment to start up a new song, to create a new melody that will be dedicated only to that child and—

“We can name him Grass,” Geralt suggests. “It’s an easy name to remember.” 

Jaskier gasps loudly, offended. “This very suggestion is a worse offence to me, and to all of humanity I must say, than when you called my wonderful and delightful singing ‘a filling-less pie’!” 

“What? It’s an easy name to remember,” Geralt protests. 

“It’s not a name,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It’s a _thing_. The baby will not be called Grass, come up with something better.” 

Geralt frowns, deep in thought, and Ciri does much the same. The baby grabs at her hair and she winces as he tugs on it. 

“Jaskier, hold him for a bit, will you? I think if someone else doesn’t hold him, I’m going to lose all my hair by the end of the trip to the orphanage.” 

“What about Moss?”

Geralt’s suggestion almost makes him drop the baby as he takes it from Ciri’s arms.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts as calmly as he can. “This is said in honest friendship. You are the worst at naming people, or horses. I understand how Roach came to exist.” 

“I think it’s kind of cute,” Ciri pipes up as she braids her hair.

“The baby will not be named Moss, end of discussion. Geralt, you are now banned from proposing any other names. Suggestions from you, Ciri? And nothing that you can see from this spot, no Rock, Water, Dirt, or anything of that sort.” 

Ciri holds up her hands in defence. “Alright, alright! What about … Eric Francis? It has a nice sound!” 

“That was the name of one of your great, great-uncles.” Jaskier retorts and Geralt snorts from where he is finishing cooking the food. “Want to have another try?” 

“You’re making it so hard,” she whines a bit. “Alen de Traville?”

“Where in all the gods’ realms are you getting those names, Ciri?” he asks, astonished, as he slowly bounces the baby in his arms. 

“I read them in books!” 

“Don’t think everything you read in books is good,” he says sternly, and she pouts. “We are not giving him a nobiliary last name, and frankly, I think I need to redo your whole education, my dear.” 

“You would only be the sixth person to do so in the last two years,” she grins. “Between Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir and Yennefer, I’ve gotten a pretty thorough education.” 

“Clearly not in the arts,” he sniffs, and she giggles, which makes him break into a wide smile. “Alright, we will see what we can do about your lack of knowledge in the fine things of life after, this baby still needs naming!” 

“You do it then,” Geralt says as he slides the rabbits off the sticks he was cooking them on. “Since we are so terrible at it, you must have a few good ideas, don’t you?” 

Just a few days ago, Jaskier would have heard this comment and heard scorn and mockery in it. Right now though, he feels warm at the teasing, and he can only chuckle. 

“Perhaps I should put myself to my own test then, yes.” 

It takes him a few minutes, running over possible names in his mind. He doesn’t want to say something ridiculous, nor does he want to say something that doesn’t feel right. He looks at the baby, at the large brown eyes and grabby hands that tug on his doublet and pull at threads, and he smiles softly. 

“Tiril,” he says in a low voice, before looking at Geralt and Ciri. “I think we should name the baby Tiril.” 

Geralt repeats the name under his breath, his voice so soft that Jaskier almost misses it beneath the crackling of the fire. 

“It sounds nice,” the witcher finally says, not looking up. “Like a proper name, for a child.” 

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. It’s stupid of him, after all, this child is going to be given to an orphanage. It isn’t like Geralt and he are going to be raising him together. They are barely friends as it is, and Jaskier doesn’t want to let his battered heart hope. He turns to Ciri and ignores the treacherous whisper that it looks like he is asking his daughter to weigh in on the naming of her younger sibling. 

“I like Tiril too!” She smiles widely, her eyes full of mischief. “Much better than Grass.” 

Geralt groans. “Am I never going to hear the end of it?” 

“Never,” Ciri grins. “But at least, Moss was kind of cute.”

“We are not calling the baby ‘Moss’,” Jaskier states again. “His name is Tiril, and I will not hear any other suggestions.” 

He turns away and hears Geralt’s soft chuckle. When he looks over his shoulder at the man, he is met with unabashed fondness, with a tender smile he would never have expected to see before, and the butterflies he thought had died on the mountain stir. _Fuck_. He is still so in love with Geralt of Rivia. 

He cradles Tiril in his arms and eats his meal, feeding what he can to the baby. Every few seconds, his eyes meet Geralt’s and the fondness there never disappears. 

It’s going to be a long few days.

[](https://hostpic.xyz/image/BntEY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The baby was nicknamed Moss forever, I want you all to know that I got shit about it from two discord servers. They then proceeded to suggest I name him turnip. *turnip*
> 
> Anyhoo!! If you enjoyed the chapter, don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos!
> 
> Huge thanks to [@soosdraws](https://soosdraws.tumblr.com) for this amazing art!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, here we go!
> 
> Some violence in this chapter, but not more than in canon, and some discussion about [spoiler] history ;) 
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s unbearably hot the next day as they travel, and Geralt groans a bit under the heat. It should not be quite so hot, not when it’s only just past mid-June, but the winter had been harsh. Ciri doesn’t look too bothered by the heat, although she drinks regularly from the water pouch they keep in Roach’s pack. It’s rough on them all, Geralt realizes as he sees Jaskier swearing under his breath and removing his doublet. 

“I don’t know how the two of you do it, all dressed in black and leather,” he says jokingly and tosses Ciri his doublet. “Mind putting it in the pack for me, darling?” 

The girl chuckles and secures Tiril against herself with one arm, grabbing the thrown doublet before putting it in the bags. “Summers in Cintra were hotter than this, and I wasn’t often allowed to wear light summer dresses. This is pretty nice compared to it!” 

“What a shame,” Jaskier sighs a bit and winks. “There is nothing better than a good loose dress to keep you fresh and beautiful during the summer! Especially if you’re lucky enough to be near water.” 

She laughs and bounces Tiril slightly. “I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t allowed much to go in water. My grandmother was pretty strict when it came to my safety.” 

Geralt watches as Jaskier hums and walks closer. “Come on, give me that baby, your arms must ache after holding him for so long.” He takes Tiril in his arms, his smile widening. “Well hello there darling…” 

Geralt can’t explain the feelings that rise in his chest when he sees that look on Jaskier’s face. Listening to him sing for Ciri and Tiril yesterday had made his heart jump in his throat; it had been a love ballad, one he had never heard from Jaskier. And yet Ciri knew it, knew it well enough to ask for it and to have strong memories tied to that song. Has Geralt been so bad a friend to Jaskier that the bard didn’t want to share all his songs? 

And then, there had been that mention of Valdo Marx. Jaskier had been with him. Jaskier had _slept_ with him. Geralt had thought that Jaskier might not be averse to sex with men, but he hadn’t been sure until Jaskier had mentioned that ‘tumble in bed’. It had been so much for Geralt to think about that he hadn’t been able to control his emotions well enough. He knows Jaskier had seen something in him that had told him something was off, but Geralt can’t tell him. He can’t tell him that he is desperately, without any hope of redemption, in love with him. Clearly, Jaskier doesn’t share those feelings. After all, why else would he have mentioned that he had slept with Marx, so casually? As if it were nothing? No, Jaskier doesn’t share those feelings. 

Tiril fusses a bit and starts to cry. It’s painfully loud in the empty plains they are crossing. 

“What does he need now,” he grumbles as Jaskier stops and tries to soothe him.

This is already the third time they are stopping to take care of him. He hadn’t realized that a baby was this much work. Tiril demands so much care, so much attention, and Geralt is afraid they can’t give that to him. Their group is composed of a witcher, a former princess training to become a witcher, and a bard, whom Geralt has never seen mind particular care towards children. Well. He didn’t know Jaskier spent his winters in Cintra either, so perhaps he is mistaken on that one, but Geralt is definitely not cut out to take care of an infant. That’s why he’s glad that Ciri is in her teens; she is old enough to understand properly and listen to orders if needed, but also to make her own judgement of what she is supposed to do if he isn’t around. 

“He’s a baby, Geralt,” Jaskier chides with a small glare. “He needs to be fed regularly and to sleep a lot, and all this traveling is certainly not helping. He’s probably hungry or needs to be put to sleep properly. Maybe being in Ciri’s arms wasn’t peaceful enough? Roach may be too feisty to be restful to ride… And if it’s hot for us, imagine for him! The poor darling.” 

He coos at the crying baby, and Geralt sighs. “So what? I can’t exactly change the weather, and we don’t have anything to carry him in. Ciri fed him the last time we stopped. Shouldn’t that be enough?” 

“That was over three hours ago,” Jaskier sighs and looks through his own pack for something to give to the baby. “Here, hold him while I find us something will you?” 

Geralt grumbles but agrees to take the screaming baby. “He’s worse than a banshee.” 

Jaskier laughs a bit. “No he isn’t. I’ve had the extreme displeasure of seeing you dispatch a banshee, and I assure you, even to my ears, Tiril’s screams are a delight compared to that creature’s.” 

The witcher grumbles a bit and Tiril hiccups a bit against his chest when he does. He starts crying again when Geralt gives him a strange look and Ciri sighs. 

“Geralt, he likes your voice,” she says with an eye roll. “You should keep speaking to him.” 

“He’s deaf,” he points out with a confused glance. “How could he like my voice?” 

“Clearly, he can feel the vibrations of it when he’s against your chest! You have a very deep voice, maybe he likes that. It’s probably like hearing to him. You should speak to him. Didn’t he fall asleep like that, the first night?” 

_Fuck_. He had thought she had been asleep when he had started speaking to Tiril that first night. He had thought he could just talk to himself quietly while he was trying to get him to sleep and that she wouldn’t notice. He hadn’t really paid attention to the delighted squeals that had preceded the moment the baby fell asleep. He had just been glad he could get some proper sleep before the travel of the next day. 

“Fine,” he grumbles again. “So, you’re hungry? I’m hungry too. Though I guess we don’t stop for me to eat, and I’d rather we get you to the orphanage as fast as possible.” 

He continues speaking, hearing a huff of laughter from behind him as Jaskier triumphantly pulls a small bottle of milk they had kept from the last town, and some fruits that he had found that morning for their breakfast, out of his pack. 

“Finally,” he exclaims. “Here—” 

And then the ground shakes, and he falls to his knees. Roach doesn’t take off, but she does rear on her hind legs, making Ciri fall down harshly. Geralt gets to her quickly, keeping the crying Tiril against him. 

“Are you alright?” He checks her quickly to see if he can find any wound, but there are only a few scratches on her hands and she shakes her head.

“What happened,” she starts to ask, and then the ground breaks open, and the monster emerges.

— 

The monster is truly hideous, with mud clinging to its grey skin. It’s long, almost snake-like, but with arms growing out of it. It’s not the ugliest thing Jaskier has seen, not with how long he has been alive, but it really is trying to aim for the title of most hideous being on the continent. Especially when it opens its mouth and, from the red inferno where blood and bones seem to still swirl, a set of rotten grey teeth appears. Jaskier would shiver and be afraid, if he were human. He would pretend so, if it weren’t for the fact that Geralt is holding Tiril, and Ciri is still on the ground close to them, her ankle slightly twisted by her fall from Roach. 

“Damn it,” he swears under his breath, and he pulls on the strap of his lute’s casing, putting it down on the ground with care. It is, after all, an elvish instrument. He has taken great care of Filavandrel’s gift throughout the years. He had grinned, not quite visibly to Geralt, who had been rather preoccupied by other matters, when the elves had realized who he was.

That moment seems far away now, as the monster towers over them, taller than three men standing on each other’s shoulders. _By the gods, this is one long and tall fellow_ , Jaskier remarks to himself as he yanks off his shirt, swearing at the laces. Damn things never come undone as easy as they should.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls out, panic and confusion in his voice. “What the fuck—” 

“Take care of the kids,” Jaskier answers, and then he pulls on the magic within him. 

The dark flow of Chaos fills him in a rush, and he groans as his wings, large and spread wide already, burst into existence again. His skin shifts from a human’s tan to the deep bronze of his people, and his eyes adapt to the Unseelie view. Colors burst in his vision where they weren’t before, and lights dance in front of his eyes. His claws, on both hands and feet, are the last thing to emerge, and by then he has already launched himself at the monster. 

The creature is smarter than it looks, but it is still an overgrown, overaggressive worm to Jaskier. It’s not, in any case, a match for a prince of his rank. Chaos flows through Jaskier like the ocean crashing onto rocky beaches: violent, incessant, and with a purpose that nature has yet to discover. He was born and made for Chaos, to wield it and kill with it, to be its instrument through the world. Despite his own preference towards not using it, there are moments like these he is glad for it. 

His clawed hands dig deep into the creature’s body, and one of its legs, or arms, the difference is hard to make out, even from this close, kicks at Jaskier’s chest, powerfully enough to send him reeling backwards. Still, he holds his ground, his wings flapping madly in the air. He hasn’t flown properly in years. Perhaps not ever since he left the Court… It’s instinct that has him jumping, his body lifting into the air without any trouble.

A mere second after his feet have left the ground, a hideous second monster, smaller but as ugly as the first one, emerges. 

_Great, it has a kid, and it brought it along for dinner._

The monsters let out a piercing noise, something that has Geralt and Ciri shouting in pain, and Tiril starts crying loudly. Jaskier is suddenly much more furious than before. No one hurts his family like this.

So he dives back, his claws latching onto the smaller monster’s head and tearing the flesh apart, bit by bit, until so little skin remains that the monster is thrashing on the ground, slowly dying. The bigger one, the parent, is trying to attack Jaskier at the same time, to defend and protect its child, but Jaskier doesn’t allow it. His Chaos reaches out, wraps itself around the monster and holds tight, so tight Jaskier can almost hear it whine in pain. 

It strains him, to do this, especially after so long without using his powers. His claws are black with the monster’s blood, and when he finally manages to pierce the creature’s shell underneath the skin, he screams in rage. It feels good, to be this powerful again, to have this much control over life and death. His blood is royal, his lineage descends from the very first fae, and Jaskier is protective enough to take on a thousand monsters, if it means Geralt and the two children are safe. He would do it in the blink of an eye, without even thinking it through, because that’s who he is. He loves, recklessly, without worrying about it, and it’s his love that makes him so savage. 

The body of the small monster crumbles to the ground, and Jaskier throws his whole body at the other one. He feels teeth closing on his right foot, trying to crush it and stop him, but he is unkillable. He might not be a god, but he is an Unseelie Prince. He could bring the world down if he so wished, and right now, he wishes that monster’s death. He will have it. 

He rips the monster’s eyes out, piercing them and clawing, violent and unashamed of it. He knows himself, knows that this isn’t who he is every day. This is for protection, and as soon as the monsters are both dead on the ground, he will go back to being the gentle, foolish bard they all expect. He will be Jaskier, the bard who sings Geralt of Rivia’s praise, and he likes it.

After all, he likes witchers; he had even traveled with a few other witchers before. None of them were _Geralt_. None of them had compelled him this way. He _wants_ to be Geralt's bard, to stay by his side and sing his merits, even when it hurts.

The monster falls dead when Jaskier breaks its shell and pulls out what seems to be its heart. He can’t be too sure though, doesn’t really know monsters’ anatomy. He should probably ask Geralt for that. 

Blood and guts cover him all over, and he wipes his face, trying to remove some from his mouth, but it only ends up smearing it more. He groans and spits out some of the blood. The first hit that the monster managed to get in had perhaps broken a couple of ribs, he estimates with one hand, landing gently back on the ground and sinking to his knees. He focuses slightly and his wings disappear. He remains in his Unseelie form though, using Chaos to slowly heal himself. It isn’t any spell he uses, he isn’t a mage or a witch, after all. For beings as old as the Unseelies, Chaos doesn’t need to be harnessed through the Elder words elves and men use. 

Silver burns suddenly underneath Jaskier’s chin, and he whines slightly, looking up to see a glaring Geralt. The effect is slightly diminished by the fact he is still holding Tiril in one arm. Still, silver burns Unseelies. It doesn’t burn the Seelies, or fae, but that is because his own people cursed themselves by splitting away from the Seelie Court. They are part monster now, and silver wounds them. 

“Could you move that away please? It’s not the most pleasant sensation, and I’ve already got quite a few wounds to heal.” 

“What did you do to Jaskier,” Geralt growls, pushing the silver blade harder against Jaskier’s neck. “Did you kill him?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and flickers back to his human form for a few seconds. Blood still covers him, the silver burns as much as before, but at least now Geralt steps back slightly. It only lasts a few seconds before Jaskier is back within his natural Unseelie form; his glamour is hard to maintain when he is healing himself.

“Geralt, it’s me. Jaskier.” 

“You lie,” the witcher seethes and almost pushes the silver blade into Jaskier’s neck, slightly drawing blood. “You aren’t Jaskier. Jaskier is human!” 

“Well, my glamour was certainly stronger than I thought. Did you not realize I didn’t age? That monsters could not harm me? That I had no trouble keeping up with you?” 

Tiril is still crying in Geralt’s arms, and Ciri walks closer, limping slightly, and she takes the baby in her arms. 

“Geralt,” she says gently and puts her hand on his wrist. “It’s him. It’s Jaskier. Come on, we saw him transform… It’s him.”

“No,” he growls and tries to keep his sword to Jaskier’s throat, but Ciri pushes harder and he is forced to withdraw it. “I know Jaskier, I know him, he isn’t…” 

“Isn’t _what_ , Geralt? A monster? A creature of darkness? Come on, say it, call me those names!” 

Geralt steps back, taken aback at Jaskier’s anger. He is still in his Unseelie prince form after all; there is a blood-soaked, alien creature baring his teeth at him, Geralt has every right to be afraid. And yet… It hurts. It makes Jaskier ache and want to cry and yell and rage, but mostly, it makes him want to tear at his own skin and disappear. There is a reason he had never told Geralt about what he is. 

“Say it,” he snaps. “Call me a beast, a monster, say I need to be killed!” 

“I…” Geralt looks lost, his eyes flitting back and forth between Ciri and Jaskier, and he shakes his head. “No. You aren’t a monster. I know you. I know you and I know you aren’t a monster and…” 

“And what?” Jaskier asks, standing back up, blood dripping down his chest. He feels disgusting. “Be honest, Geralt.” 

He remembers saying those words in a much different manner, not so long ago. He remembers the Djinn and Geralt and Yennefer. He remembers thinking he was going to die that way. He doesn’t like those memories. 

“I trust you.” Geralt looks at him, and he lets go of his silver sword. 

The weapon falls to the ground, and the clank it makes is loud and startling, but it’s more the gesture than anything else that startles Jaskier. He knows how important Geralt’s swords are to him, he has suffered through more than one long-winded explanation that a witcher’s only necessary belongings were his swords and armour. Those were truly the only times Geralt opened up and talked at length. To see the silver sword being tossed away, and to see Geralt standing tall, looking him directly in the eyes, it makes warmth rush back within his chest. 

And then, something collides with him, and he looks down to see Ciri hugging him, her blond hair slowly getting stained with the ichor lingering on Jaskier’s body. 

“Stop fighting,” she whispers, her voice broken. “Please… I need you Jask…” 

Jaskier sighs softly. “I’m sorry darling. I didn’t mean to cause you any pain. Are you two alright?” 

She looks over at Tiril, who is staring at Jaskier in awe, bubbles sliding down his chin. “I think he likes you this way.” 

Jaskier chuckles uneasily. “You think so? I look like a demon though. Geralt can tell you about those I bet.” 

“I’ve seen demons,” she says and hugs him again. “I can see you aren’t one. You’re too kind for that.” 

Her unwavering trust and faith in him is as important as Geralt’s earlier display, and he allows tears of relief to run down his cheeks. Geralt comes closer slowly and reaches out, and his hand lands on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he says with a nod. “For saving us.” 

Jaskier huffs, and he knows his eyes must be showing all the tenderness he has for the man when he looks at him. “You would have done the same, of course. I'm glad that you know now, at least.”

A gentle smile illuminates the witcher’s face, and Jaskier’s treacherous heart beats louder in his chest. The warmth of the day sinks into his bones and he smiles back. Perhaps, everything might yet be alright. 

— 

Geralt doesn’t really know how to react. Jaskier is… something. Something not human. He isn’t sure what he is, because he has never seen any creature like this. Wings and claws like this usually speak of monsters and creatures of the night, but Geralt’s medallion hasn’t vibrated in Jaskier’s presence. It never has, and it isn’t starting now. And even if it did, Geralt trusts Jaskier. 

Even with all the monster guts and the blood covering him, Jaskier is still Jaskier. There is something strangely familiar about this new form of Jaskier’s. He is beautiful still, and Geralt knows he shouldn’t think so, shouldn’t see a creature with wings and claws who just tore two powerful monsters apart and still think of how to best tell him that he loves him. Yet, he does. He wonders what Jaskier’s lips would feel like under his, wonders if the bard’s teeth are as sharp as his claws. 

“What are you, though?” 

They have moved away from the monsters’ corpses, and Geralt fed Tiril before they departed again. Ciri has been walking with Jaskier, who picked up his lute and let Geralt stow it away safely among Roach’s packs. They are reaching the edge of the woods again, and that means shade for all of them, and water nearby. 

Jaskier, who has just taken a quick dip in the water to clean himself up, chuckles at Ciri’s question. “I wonder what those witchers taught you if you can’t even recognize an Unseelie Prince.” 

Geralt looks at Jaskier with a panicked look. “Unseelie Prince?” 

“Yes?” There is a shy, almost embarrassed grin on his face as he uses a soft heating spell to dry his clothes. “Listen, it doesn’t have to be a big deal, it’s nothing out of the ordinary!” 

“Are you,” Geralt starts, stops, breathes in deeply. “Fuck. We’re camping here, go get some wood for a fire, Ciri.” 

“We have Jaskier, I’m sure we don’t need me to gather firewood!” Ciri pouts and takes Tiril in her arms. “If you’re going to yell at him, you can’t keep Tiril, and Jaskier has _claws_ right now. I’m not sure him handling Tiril would be very intelligent of us.” 

“Why would I yell at him?” 

“No, the kid’s right, you’ve got those tense shoulders and harsh set of the jaw that says you’re about to yell. Or at least be pretty angry.” Jaskier says and sits down on the forest ground, his wings flapping slightly. “So, what is it?”

“Don’t call Ciri ‘the kid’,” Geralt says, but the girl shrugs and sits down next to the bard. “You’re a fucking Unseelie Prince!” 

“Yes,” Jaskier nods. “Don’t swear in front of the baby!” 

“He can’t hear me!” 

“No, but I can and you still shouldn’t swear in front of the baby.” Jaskier says, and Ciri nods alongside him. 

The girl is grinning widely, looking at Geralt smugly. “Yes, Geralt, you shouldn’t swear in front of the baby.” 

“Don’t you derail the conversation,” he points a finger at Jaskier, “You are an Unseelie Prince!” 

“Yes, I thought I had made myself quite clear on that. Do you need help Geralt?” 

The witcher is pacing. Jaskier is an _Unseelie Prince_. Those aren’t supposed to exist, not anymore. The fae eradicated them, slaughtered the Unseelies hundreds of years ago, in one of the bloodiest wars recorded by magical historians. The last Unseelie King had been the third king of the Unseelie, King Vivien, and he had been greedy for blood, wishing for war and control over the Seelie Kingdoms. Geralt had read about this, had seen the records in Kaer Morhen. How is he supposed to believe that Jaskier is over, at the very least, a thousand years old? 

“You can’t be an Unseelie Prince. There are no more Unseelies.” He states this and crosses his arms. “You can’t be.” 

“First you say I can’t be inhuman, then you say I can’t be an Unseelie Prince. Who am I supposed to be then, Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s voice is soft, slowly fading to a sad tone. Geralt hates that he caused this, but when he looks at his- no, _the_ bard, he feels disbelief and awe fill him. If Jaskier is really what he says he is… He must be one of the last few members of his race. _Just like me_ , Geralt’s treacherous mind whispers, and he shoves down the thought. 

“Not to interrupt or anything,” Ciri says, confusion clear in her voice. “But what’s an Unseelie?” 

“Ah, _that_ I can explain properly! Unless… Would you rather say it, Geralt?” Jaskier tilts his head, a small smile on his face. 

The fact that he doesn’t seem angry at Geralt for insulting him _again_ makes Geralt’s heart warm. He doesn’t want to drive him away again, doesn’t want to lose Jaskier, not when they are just on the mend. Not when he still hasn’t properly made amends. He can sense that Jaskier is still hurt by what he said, no matter the fact that he accepted his apology back at the inn, and earlier… 

Geralt is horrified at himself. He put his sword to Jaskier’s throat, and if he looks now, he can still see the faint cut, the slight burn. Jaskier had assured Ciri that it would disappear soon enough, but Geralt hadn’t been fooled. There had been a slight waver in his voice. The witcher might have seriously harmed the man he loves, and just for that, he could never forgive himself. It doesn’t matter, after all, whether Jaskier is an Unseelie Prince or not. Geralt knows him. They traveled together for twenty years, and he learnt to know every detail there was to know about Jaskier. 

“Go ahead,” he sighs and starts gathering wood for the fire.

He pays attention to what Jaskier is saying in the meantime, listening to the tale he weaves for Ciri. 

“First things first, you might know what Seelies are. They are usually called fae in this tongue. Seelie is the word that most magical creatures will refer to them by. After all, that is what they call themselves, and have since the beginning of their time on this earth. Another important detail to know is that the Seelies are ranked within the Seelie Court, where the Seelie King and Queen live and make the rules for their people.” 

So far, Geralt knows everything he is saying, but Ciri looks captivated, so he doesn’t interrupt. He finishes gathering the wood and then sets up camp properly. He doesn’t ask the other two to participate. There is something oddly fascinating in the way Jaskier speaks, something that makes Geralt want to stop and listen as raptly as Ciri is. Magic is strong with the bard, he guesses, and it permeates the very air he breathes. 

Jaskier finishes explaining the ranking of the Seelie Court, Ciri laughing at an anecdote he offers about Seelie Knights, and continues onto his tale. 

“There was a conflict amongst the Seelies, about… Oh, perhaps two thousand years ago? I wasn’t born yet, so you can imagine I don’t remember that quite well,” he chuckles and Ciri grins. “Don’t say anything about my age, young lady, I’ll have you know I’m in perfect condition. 

“Anyway, there was a conflict between the then-current King, King Nerva, and one of his subjects, a Seelie named Halena. Halena wanted to be free from the Seelie Court. She hated the restrictions that the Court put on her. She wanted to be able to use her magic as she pleased, and to be allowed to interact with humans. You see, Halena had fallen in love with a human, and she wished to be with them, but the Seelie King refused to allow it. It was his mistake however; Halena soon gathered partisans, and she led a revolt. The Seelie Kingdom was split apart in a civil war for hundreds of years, but Seelies are long lived, and Halena was full of anger. Her mortal lover had died, and so had their child together, and Nerva had had every single descendant of hers slaughtered.” 

Ciri gasps, captivated by the story, and Geralt has stilled in his movements as well. He is listening intently to Jaskier’s tale, eager to know more. There is so much to learn here, so much to understand. Fae, or Seelies he supposes, are mysterious creatures, prone to trickery and violence, who can make people go to extreme lengths for nothing but their amusement. He has met few fae-enchanted humans, but of those he had, the spells upon them were stronger than anything he had ever encountered. 

“Halena was furious, of course. Every single person she had loved in the mortal realm was dead, at the hand of the one who still called himself the rightful king. One night, she crawled to the shore, and offered herself to the Moon Goddess. She pledged her life, her soul and heart, to be able to kill Nerva. The Moon Goddess, Karisa, refused that bargain. She had come to cherish Halena, her passion and her heart. She offered something else to Halena: she offered her a new magic, that would make her, and her followers, different from those who had birthed them and who now cursed their names.” 

“Did she accept?” Ciri is a bit breathless as she asks, her eyes wide. She looks almost child-like, her eyes full of wonder as she stares at Jaskier. 

“Of course,” Jaskier assures her. “Halena was no fool, and she knew you did not refuse a gift from Karisa. She went back to her camp in the morning, and wings dark as the night had grown from her shoulders. Seelies who saw her called her a demon, but Halena was proud, and she knew that she was right in her heart. And her followers saw it as well. One by one, she gave them the Moon’s blessing, and one by one, they became Unseelies. In that shape, they were finally able to stop the civil war that was tearing apart the country. All those who sided with Halena were blessed by the Moon. The Seelies had appealed to the Sun, and he had granted them his blessing, but he did not change their nature. He did not have that power.

“Seelies are the children of the Sun, you see,” he smiles gently, curling his claws inward to caress Ciri’s cheek without hurting her. “Unseelies are the children of the Moon. We are the free spirits roaming the night, calling to our mother the Moon. She gave us our wings and claws so that the Seelies would not harm us anymore.” 

“What happened to Halena?” Geralt surprises himself by asking, his voice a bit rough. “She was the first Unseelie Queen, wasn’t she?” 

“Well, yes,” Jaskier looks a bit surprised that he asked but he smiles happily. “She had given so much of herself to all of us that she died shortly after the first Unseelie Court meeting. Unseelies are less focused on rules than Seelies. If you ever walk into an Unseelie circle, you will not be tricked, you will not be given a choice that leaves you, in either case, worse off than you began.”

“What are Unseelies like then?” Ciri nestles against Jaskier, yawning a bit as she holds Tiril. “If they aren’t like fae- Sorry, like Seelies?” 

“Wilder,” he answers with a proud note in his voice. “Full of freedom. Our Court exists to help us in times of crisis, but we are not… We do not live by rules other than our own.” 

“You are a prince though,” Geralt points out. “Doesn’t that give you more power?” 

Jaskier grimaces a bit, almost as if he wished that Geralt hadn’t asked. “Somewhat. My connection to the Moon is stronger than most of my peers. I’m the direct descendant of one of the first Unseelies, and Halena blessed my family line to bear great leaders, should we ever need them. It hasn’t exactly made us luckier.” 

“King Vivien was your father,” Geralt states, and Jaskier looks stricken. “The last Fae War is mentioned quite extensively in magical history.” 

Jaskier chuckles sadly, and Ciri sits up. She frowns at Geralt, and the way her eyes settle on him, he can tell that she is annoyed he made Jaskier sad again. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to tell her, to tell Jaskier. _I don’t know how to stop hurting you_.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Ciri says quickly. “It’s alright.” 

“It is,” Geralt assures right after the girl, gently reaching for Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezing it lightly. “I did not mean to upset you, my friend.” 

There is a light in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt calls him that, and again that warmth blooms in Geralt’s stomach. Jaskier is different in this form, he isn’t the bard Jaskier, he is Jaskier the Prince of the Unseelie. Yet, Geralt knows him this way as well. Maybe this light in his blue eyes mean that all hope isn’t lost between them. Maybe Geralt can mend what he broke, and be strong enough to admit to the other man that he loves him. 

“No, you both have a right to know,” he sighs a bit. “Yes, my father was Vivien. However, I doubt that your history books are truthful to who he was… They are probably not truthful to who my people are. What do they mention of Halena? Do they talk of her sorrow and her devotion to our well-being?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “No,” he admits easily. “They don’t. All those books I’ve read were translated from Seelie histories that were traded to us by elves.” 

“I would have assumed so,” Jaskier smiles sadly. “My people are no longer the great people we were. We are scattered throughout the world. Being a Prince means nothing anymore. Not since my father was brutally murdered, and since we were forced to flee our homeland. I did not venture into the human world for nothing, Geralt. My father was not a perfect man, I would be the first to admit that. He was far from tender, far from being a good father in any way, and he was not a perfect king. But he did not deserve to be killed in his chambers by a Seelie spy. I have not seen my sisters in centuries, and I have not seen another Unseelie since long before I met you. 

“We are reputed to be creatures of darkness and evil only because most of us have had to sell our magic as cheap tricks for human witches without proper education. We have been hunted, killed, our wings torn from our backs. I have walked amongst halls decorated with the claws of people I had known in my childhood. Every fifty years, I must reinvent myself, become someone new, hide somewhere for peace and quiet. 

“All those lies sold to humanity and to all the others… I wish I could find the first Seelie who thought of it and rip them apart. It would only be fair justice for what they did to my people.” 

Ciri looks at him, her eyes wide, and slowly, she cuddles closer to him, hugging him tightly. It’s marvellous, Geralt thinks, how loving his adopted daughter can be. She is beautiful, full of tenderness, and she does not hesitate to show her love. He wishes he were even an ounce as brave as she is.

Jaskier kisses the top of her head and then looks down at Tiril, who is gazing happily at him. “Well, he doesn’t seem too scared.” 

“I told you,” Ciri says proudly. “He likes the way you look!” 

“How could he not?” Geralt mumbles to himself, and he avoids Jaskier’s surprised look. “I just mean. You are interesting looking. For a baby.” 

Ciri laughs. Loudly, without shame, she throws her head back and laughs. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, and it brings a wide smile to Geralt’s lips. 

“Gods, dad, you’re terrible,” she says, and then she catches herself, a blush on her cheeks. “I mean-”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts before she can take it back, before the happy feeling in his chest disappears. “I think of you as my daughter as well.” 

They smile at each other from where they are, him standing and her sitting next to Jaskier, both unsure of what to do in this situation. Jaskier rolls his eyes at them.

“You two are ridiculous,” he says with a groan as his wings retreat within himself, a pained expression on his face as he takes back human appearance. 

He is shirtless, but his claws have disappeared, and he has hands again. He reaches for Tiril and smiles at the baby, who can only smile back and blow bubbles. 

“Go hug your father,” Jaskier says with a push to Ciri’s back. “Come on. You two can’t have grand declarations like that and not hug.” 

Geralt smiles again as he watches Jaskier maneuver to pull on a shirt while still holding an infant in his arms. He doesn’t have the time to look more, because he soon has an armful of teenage girl.

Ciri is hugging him tightly, her arms around his torso, and he hugs her back. It’s nice, to hold her this way. He doesn’t often get to hold her, to think of her properly as his daughter. That she called him ‘dad’ has him wanting to never let go of her. He can hardly believe that he didn’t want her before. 

He had wanted to protect her, to keep her away from the life of a witcher, but he knows he did the wrong thing. He should have stayed, should have kept close to her. That would have avoided her so much pain. Though, he thinks as he kisses the top of her blond hair and she smiles up at him brightly, Calanthe wouldn’t have let him. She had not been fond of him, after Pavetta’s betrothal. 

“You love him, don’t you?” Ciri looks at him, her green eyes knowing. “It’s alright, I won’t tell him.” 

He chuckles. She’s too smart for her own good sometimes. He is truly lucky she found him, and chose to love him.

“Yes,” he answers quietly. “But I said things to him that were unfair. And I was not a good friend to him, beforehand. I have a lot to make up for, and I don’t think he’ll forget those things so easily, nor forgive me as he once did.” 

“Then you just have to keep trying,” she says with a stern look. 

“Alright, alright,” he smiles again and, pushing a hand through her hair, continues. “When did you get so wise?” 

“Guess I learnt from the best.” She shrugs and moves a bit away. “And by that, I mean Vesemir.” 

He laughs, and turns his eyes back to Jaskier. The man is sitting against a tree trunk, dressed again in his shirt, although it’s badly laced, and his eyes are closed. He looks peaceful like this, with Tiril nestled against him and pulling on his shirt. It does nothing to wake him up, and Geralt sighs a bit. 

“He is terrible at doing things properly, isn’t he?” Ciri remarks and shoves him forward. “Go take care of him! I’ll make sure we have food for dinner!” 

She’s already hurrying away by the time he comes back to himself, and he sighs a bit more. Jaskier had looked exhausted by the end of the conversation, and the way he had groaned in pain when he had shifted back into human form had not sat well with Geralt. Still, Jaskier had not said anything about being tired, and Geralt had been preoccupied by his daughter. 

He sets up Jaskier’s bedroll quickly, and then he gently wakes up the man. “Jaskier? The tree isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep.” 

Jaskier yawns and hums. “Right,” he murmurs. “Thanks Geralt.” 

The way he says his name, soft and full of sleep, makes it seem as if they are lovers, in bed together after a long night, and Geralt tries to not picture that. 

“Do you want me to take Tiril?” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “He is sleeping… It doesn’t bother me to hold him. I’m quite tired as well.” 

“The fight was too much?” 

Jaskier shrugs and lays down, keeping Tiril in his arms. “Has just been a long time since I shifted. And yeah, the monsters weren’t exactly the nicest touch for the day.” 

“Sleep,” Geralt says and caresses Jaskier’s hair, feeling the softness under his hand. “I’ll take care of the rest.” 

Jaskier smiles, leaning into the touch slightly, and he drifts off to sleep again. On his chest, Tiril doesn’t stir. 

“Fuck.” 

Geralt looks at the two and he can’t help but see a family. _His_ family. 

He is entirely, utterly, fucked.

[](https://hostpic.xyz/image/BnLne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I'm the proudest of? That history yall. I love it, i might have to use it again in another fic... ;) 
> 
> As always, don't hesitate to comment and leave kudos!! they make my days, even if i don't answer immediately <3 !
> 
> The amazing Unseelie Jaskier art was made by the wonderful[@soosdraws](https://soosdraws.tumblr.com), who did a wonderful job with the design and i'm in love with their art!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, chapter 4~!
> 
> Careful for some mention of sacrificial kills (very light) and some derogatory talk about deaf children, but it's all dealt with! And some violence as well, but again, nothing out of canon-ordinary.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Once again, the art was made by the lovely, amazing [@soosdraws](https://soosdraws.tumblr.com)!

Crunne is an odd city, Geralt decides when they finally arrive there, two days later. It may be nestled within a beautiful valley where orchards of apple and orange bloom, where there are lush fields of wheat and barley, but there is something about the city itself that doesn’t sit right with Geralt. The walls of the city are high, but there are no guards at the entrance, nor any he can see on the actual walls. It makes him wonder what exactly they are worried about, if they have walls so high that they cast a shadow on every house within. 

Everything is made of a dark grey stone that is almost black, and the large pillars of the gate are decorated with ribbons and brightly coloured lanterns. There is probably a festival of some sort, and Geralt wonders if they’ll be stuck in it. They just need to leave Tiril at the orphanage quickly, and then they can be on their way. 

Strangely, the idea of leaving the baby behind troubles him. He has started to actually like the child. He is bright, and when he is awake, he plays with them and tries to copy their movements. Ciri has been slowly trying to teach him and see what he responds to, but it’s a slow process. She has also been teaching Jaskier some of the sign she knows. 

They haven’t spoken of Jaskier’s Unseelie nature since that first night. Geralt has decided that it doesn’t bother him. It remains in the back of his mind though, an ever-present knowledge that Jaskier is probably much stronger than him. Those threats Jaskier uttered on the first day they saw each other again were not as far fetched as he had originally thought. It leaves a warmth curling in his stomach. Jaskier has always been strong, Geralt has always known there was more than simply looks to the bard, but to this extent? He could never have imagined it. 

“Dad?” Ciri touches his shoulder with one hand.

She’s sitting on top of Roach, holding Tiril in one arm, and she looks concerned. He smiles slightly at the way she doesn’t hesitate to call him her father now. It had only taken them acknowledging that they were like family to each other for the bond between them to strengthen. She isn’t just his child surprise, she is his daughter, and he is glad to hear her refer to him as her father. 

“Everything’s alright,” he nods. “How’s Tiril?” 

“Fussy,” she frowns. “I think he is tired, or hungry? I can’t really tell…” 

Jaskier comes closer and frowns. “You want me to take him, darling?” 

He fits so well within their little family that Geralt almost forgets that after they leave the baby at the orphanage, Jaskier will leave them again. After all, even knowing he is an Unseelie Prince, it doesn’t matter that Geralt apologized. What he said to Jaskier on the mountain was too much, too awful. He’ll never properly atone for it, and he deserves that. He wishes though, wishes that Jaskier would travel with them, that they could keep going and traveling together like before. But Geralt has Ciri now, and Jaskier must certainly want his freedom back. 

“It’s alright,” Ciri says and bounces Tiril lightly. “I want to keep him as much as I can… Do you know where the orphanage is?” 

Jaskier shakes his head and puts his hand on Geralt’s arm. “I’m going to ask around, you three stay around here alright?” 

Geralt nods, trying to ignore how much that simple contact means to him. “Alright.” 

Once he is gone, Ciri grins as she looks down at her father. “You’re really in love with him, it’s gross.” 

“I thought we agreed not to speak of it,” he grunts and folds his arms. 

“No,” she grins wider. “I agreed not to tell him, that’s all. I can still tease you as much as I want! And you are so in love with him, I wonder how he can be so blind to it.”

“Maybe he sees but doesn’t want to hurt me by rejecting me.” Geralt says with a shrug. “Now, stop talking about it. I don’t want him to overhear it.” 

“You should invite him to travel with us for the rest of the year,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure he would love to come with us.” 

“I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable,” he grunts. “I said some horrible things to him.” 

“Yeah, and you also accused him of being a monster not that long ago. He seems to have gotten over that pretty easily, though. I think he’s just afraid of you not wanting him around. Which is why you should invite him!” 

“If you want him to stay so badly, invite him yourself.” He doesn’t pout, but it’s close enough to it that he feels childish. Vesemir would never let him hear the end of it if he saw him behaving this way. 

“It’s not the same thing! I’m your daughter, if I ask him he’ll think that you don’t want him to! You have to be the one doing it!” 

He sighs at her insistence. By all the gods, she is a stubborn one. It’s just his luck, having a child who is more stubborn than he himself is. 

“I’ll think about it, alright?” 

She seems content and goes back to playing with Tiril while Geralt looks around, trying to locate where the bard has gone. He is a bit worried about losing him in the crowd that has taken over Crunne. It’s the end of the afternoon and people are bustling through the streets, looking like they are enjoying themselves. On his chest, Geralt’s medallion hums slightly. 

He doesn’t understand why. There are no threats around, no magical beings that he can detect. Though, that last one might be faulty, since his medallion hadn’t realized that Jaskier had not had an ounce of human blood in twenty years of traveling together. 

“I found where it is,” Jaskier comes back with a wave and a smile, and he extends a pastry to both Ciri and Geralt. “And here is a treat for the afternoon!” 

“Thanks, Jaskier,” Ciri says brightly as she lets him take Tiril. 

“Hello sweetheart,” Jaskier says with a tender smile for the baby. “You sure look quite fussy… But don’t worry, all this traveling will soon be over! And you’ll have a nice home, with a nice family… Maybe you’ll even have a big sister or brother! That would be great, wouldn’t it?” 

He continues chattering and talking to the baby, who has put a hand on his throat and giggles at the vibrations, and Geralt follows with a defeated sigh. He is in love with a man he could very well see himself having a family with. Jaskier already has a special bond with Ciri, and Tiril obviously adores him. It would be so easy to just … not leave the baby at the orphanage. 

“We could-" he starts saying, but they are at the door of an imposing building, and he feels nerves tying his throat. 

“Yes?” Jaskier turns to him with an expectant look in his eyes. 

It’s almost as if they are all hoping that Geralt will say the same words. _Let’s keep the baby_ , he could say. _Travel with us, Jaskier, and let me make amends. We could be a family together_. 

He doesn’t. He shrugs instead. “Are you going to knock?” 

There is a disappointed sigh from Ciri as she gets down from Roach, and she ties the horse’s bridle to one of the hitching posts along the street before walking closer to her adoptive father. He looks down at her, almost wanting to apologize, but this was the plan all along. They only had to bring the baby to the orphanage and then go back to monster hunting. It wasn’t ever supposed to be a moment to build a family. 

It surprises them when the door swings open, revealing a short, plump woman, with a stern haircut and an even sterner look. She has a child holding her skirt, and she looks expectantly at the three of them. 

“Well? What is it?” She finally asks. “We don’t buy wares from traveling merchants in this house and-” 

“Ah, no,” Jaskier interrupts quickly. “Are we talking to Miss Elvina Cresto? We were directed to her for the orphanage.” 

“We don’t take kids as old as she is,” the woman says, nodding to Ciri. “Too old, she can already be working and we don’t have food enough to feed useless mouths.” 

“I’m not up for adoption,” Ciri snaps, anger bright in her tone, and Geralt puts a hand on her shoulder. 

“We aren’t here for her,” Jaskier interjects before Ciri and the woman, possibly Miss Cresto, can argue any further. “We found a baby a few days ago and no family in the area has claimed it. We were told that your orphanage took care of infants?” 

The woman finally looks at Jaskier properly and notices that he is holding Tiril. Her eyes suddenly have an interested light in them, and Geralt wonders what it is. If the woman’s earlier words were true, then she wouldn’t want to take on yet another child, since it would be another ‘useless mouth’. Still, Geralt doesn’t say anything when the woman reaches for the child. 

Jaskier steps back a little and the woman glares at him. “Do you want me to take the baby or not?” 

Hesitation hangs in the air. Ciri is looking expectantly at Geralt, almost pleading, and Geralt opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he could say that would help with the situation. The image of Tiril sleeping on Jaskier’s chest flashes in his mind, and he feels a twinge of pain in his chest. He wants to keep the baby, to raise him and learn how he’ll grow and what kind of person he will become. The yearning for a family burns bright inside him suddenly. 

He doesn’t have the time to speak, to tell her that no, actually they’ll be keeping the child, before Jaskier is handing him over. 

“Here,” the bard says, a bit apologetic, “He is deaf, I must warn you, so we have been trying to communicate with him with sign language but-” 

“No need to instruct me on childcare,” the woman cuts in as she takes Tiril in her arms. “I know how to take care of that kind of child.” 

_That kind_. Geralt almost growls at the words, but the sadness of his daughter holds him back. Ciri is looking at the ground, and he can see tears slowly falling on her cheeks. He draws her against him and gives her a gentle hug. 

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers softly, so that only she will hear. “He’ll be safe and grow up happily in a family.” 

“Right,” she hiccups, and looks back at Tiril. “You promise?” 

Geralt shouldn’t. He shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep, shouldn’t give her a hope that he can’t guarantee. 

“I promise,” he says. 

Jaskier gives them a sad glance as he follows the woman inside. “I’m just going to see where they are putting him. You two stay here, alright?” 

He caresses Ciri’s cheek quickly before disappearing into the hallway behind the woman. 

— 

The orphanage had looked… _sufficient_. It hadn’t been the most beautiful place, and there had been a lot of children already, but Jaskier hopes that Tiril will find a home soon enough. He is a beautiful baby, with an easy temper, and it shouldn’t be too hard for him to be loved. Right? 

He is just trying to convince himself at this point. He sighs into his tankard of ale. He shouldn’t have left Tiril there. He wants to go back and get him, keep him with him, but… After all, what kind of life could he offer to a child? He is a wandering bard, as well as an Unseelie Prince in exile. A baby has no place beside him. He would just make the child’s life even more difficult. Even if the child is as adorable and loving as Tiril is. Was. They don’t have Tiril with them anymore. 

Across from him, Ciri is curled up in her seat, her legs drawn up against her chest. She hasn’t spoken a word since he came out of the orphanage without the baby, and he feels guilt curling in his stomach. She had gotten attached, and he and Geralt took that away from her. They took that brief moment of happiness from her, when she probably needed as much happiness as she could get. 

She had made quite the spectacular older sister too, Jaskier thinks idly. They could have been the perfect family. Well. If one ignored the fact that Jaskier and Geralt weren’t a couple. And the fact that after tonight, they would be going their separate ways. 

He doesn’t want that to happen, if he is quite honest with himself. He wants to remain with Ciri and Geralt, and to see their smiles as they each refer to the other as family. He aches for the companionship of the witcher again. But he isn’t going to impose his presence on the man, when he hasn’t offered him the invitation to come along. Now that Tiril is safe in the orphanage and that Jaskier has made sure Ciri was safe as well, there is nothing that forces him to stay. 

Nothing besides the fact that he is hopelessly in love with Geralt and can’t bear to abandon Ciri. 

“Ciri,” Geralt says gently to his daughter, pushing a plate of the stew they had ordered in front of her. “You have to eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” she pushes the plate away without looking at the witcher. “I don’t want to eat.”

“You have to,” Geralt insists. “We don’t have warm food like this a lot on the road and when we go back to the Path-” 

“I don’t want to go back to the Path,” the girl snarls out, looking back up at Geralt for the first time that evening. “I’m not leaving Tiril alone.” 

Geralt looks taken aback. “Ciri, he’ll be alright here, with people to take care of him. We can’t stay here too long anyway.” 

“Why not? We could stay and watch over him! Make sure that he gets a good family, that he grows up happy!”

_We could be his family_ , her unspoken words ring loudly in Jaskier’s ears, and he tries to ignore the truth of that. 

“How do you suppose you will do that,” Jaskier asks, twirling a piece of bread in his hand, “if you let yourself starve? It won’t do him, or you for that matter, any good.” 

She glares at him. “I bet he isn’t eating well back there.” 

“Whatever you do, whether you eat your stew or not, it won’t change that,” Jaskier shrugs. “At least if you eat it, you’ll have enough strength to be able to be concerned over him.” 

She glares harder, but she starts eating anyway, unfolding herself slightly. Geralt sends a thankful look to Jaskier and the bard sighs. He wishes he hadn’t had to say that. He wishes he hadn’t put himself in this position in the first place, where he has to tell a thirteen year old girl off this way. He adores the girl, and he hates to have to scold her, but Geralt had been looking so lost that Jaskier had to help, in any way he could.

They finish their meals in silence, the atmosphere at their table gloomy and dark. The inn is cheerful around them; tomorrow is the Midsummer Festival, when the crops are blessed and they have celebrations deep into the night to welcome the longest day of the year. Jaskier remembers partaking in such festivals throughout the years, and usually it would fill him with excitement. Tonight, it only fills him with dread. 

They go to their shared bedroom that evening and everyone remains quiet as they prepare to sleep. Ciri has elected to not take the same bed as her father, which leaves Jaskier sleeping with Geralt again. He isn’t about to complain about that, but he would rather not have his last night with them be like this, a mix of lust and heartbreak. It’s not his fault they had to give Tiril to the orphanage; intrinsically he knows that it was the right thing to do. 

Still, he sleeps uneasily. There is something that bothers him, a feeling in his chest that’s screaming for attention. Ciri has cried herself to sleep, and he watched her sobbing form until the late hours, until even Geralt’s breathing has evened into sleep. 

The moon is high, almost at its apogee, and Jaskier is still awake. He is restless, that’s the only word he can use for it, and he wants to scream. Why must he always feel so conflicted about everything? Why must his blood boil and shout when he wants it to be quiet? Perhaps some music would soothe him. After all, it has before, on travels with Geralt. 

He grabs his lute from where it sits in the corner and walks downstairs, intending to play some tunes for the people still there. There is no one though, not even the innkeeper, and that makes him frown. Usually, on days before a festival, people are as eager to be out and drinking and singing as they are during the festival. Any excuse to be off drinking and celebrating is an excuse well taken. 

He wanders out into the streets, and there is no one still. All the lanterns have been snuffed out, as if it is near dawn, and there is no sign of any living being within the streets. Jaskier strums his lute, feeling uneasiness rising in him. 

There had been something wrong, and while he hadn’t been able to tell what it was earlier, now he can understand what his senses had picked up. There is the lingering smell of magic in the air, acrid and bitter, and it makes him snarl a bit. Only dark, uncontrolled Chaos could make him react this way. He has never, after all, reacted like this to Geralt’s magic, or to Yennefer’s. Even if Yennefer’s magic had been less than friendly at times, there had been good underneath. Furthermore, the sorceress had had such a control over her Chaos that he would never have felt her letting it leak and pool in a wide area like this. 

Whoever is manipulating Chaos in this town is not of the same rank as Yennefer. It reassures him somewhat. He might have been able to win a duel with Yennefer, if he had been forced to do so, but he isn’t sure he would have survived it. Whoever is leaving those traces in the air is weak, weak and careless. 

He plays a melody without even noticing. His fingers caress the strings of his lute and he hums a song, an old song that speaks to the moon, to his goddess and ancestor, to the warrior Halena. He hasn’t sung this one in a long time, maybe not ever since he left his people, but it suits the dark evening. 

He follows the scent around the town, his voice barely above a whisper. This song isn’t in the common tongue, none of them would even understand it, but it is still a secret, a memory only for him. If human ears were to listen to it, their minds would be filled with images of ancestral forests and deep oceans that they have never seen before. If Jaskier truly wanted to harm anyone, he would sing it loudly and weave his Chaos into it, make them go insane with the need to lose themselves in the forest. But Jaskier doesn’t want to harm; he only wants comfort. 

The smell leads him to the orphanage, and a breath is punched out of his stomach. This is where the scent has started, where it is the strongest and most pungent. He feels the need to turn to his original form, but that would be too much right now. Right now, he needs to go in there, undetected, and to come out with Tiril. 

Whatever is happening within that orphanage is nefarious. Jaskier feels his eyes glowing, feels the horns on his forehead grow and curl, but he keeps in the wings and the claws. He only needs to have his Chaos at hand to slip in undetected. He has done it many times before, sneaking out of somewhere he wasn’t meant to be. It had been only when he had been too lazy to change even a little that he had been seen. 

He pushes the door of the orphanage open, and the small seal of magic crumbles under his hand. Someone had attempted to protect whatever it is they are hiding inside. Even Geralt could have undone that seal, with a bit of work. To Jaskier, its presence goes almost completely unnoticed. Barely a tingle under his palm, it can do nothing to stop him. 

The hallway inside is dark, no lights left out for night wanderers. It doesn’t matter to Jaskier. He is an Unseelie, he was created of a blessing from the moon, he doesn’t need light to see. He walks through the hallways, a shadow on the wall, and he counts the steps he takes. He remembers the way to the room where the orphanage’s owner had put Tiril, but he wants to make sure there are no further traps. If there is any magic, he will detect it only if he pays attention. He has seen many a powerful being fall prey to small tricks only because they did not look at what was surrounding them. 

When he slips inside the nursery, he is still barely more than a shadow in the middle of the room. There are five cradles right now, just as there had been this morning. He looks into the one where Tiril had been, the one closest to the door, and his blood freezes. There is no Tiril here, no baby sleeping peacefully through the night. 

With haste, he checks all the other cradles. None of the babies are Tiril. His panic rises in his chest, and he goes through the whole orphanage, slipping into room after room, looking for his son, for his baby, for the child he should never have left here. Rage builds up alongside the worry. He should have known, he should have fought harder for Tiril. He will never forgive himself if something has happened to Tiril. 

When he is done searching the whole building, when no crack in the wall, no small closest, no pillow has been left unexplored, he is forced to face the truth. Tiril is not in this building, and whatever dark magic had entered this place is responsible for it. Jaskier very, very carefully does not scream. His magic makes the windows burst though, and he is only slipping outside of the orphanage when the first startled cries are heard. 

The Unseelie Prince, wings beating harshly as he lifts himself into the air, is angry, and he will find whatever he is seeking. But first, he has a family to wake up. 

— 

Geralt is taken out of sleep by a clawed hand shaking his shoulder roughly, and he reaches for his silver sword before realizing that the thing in front of him is not a monster, but Jaskier. The blue eyes of the Unseelie are glowing much brighter than the other time Geralt had seen them, and there is a tangible fury coming from him.

Jaskier?” He sits up and asks, voice rough with sleep. “What’s going on? Why are you-” 

“Tiril is gone.” 

Suddenly, there has never been a moment sharper in Geralt’s life. _Tiril is gone_. Three simple words, easy, so small and casual on their own, chilling his blood until it is ice. 

“Where?” He asks, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and getting up. 

His swords are quickly fastened to his back, his clothing and armour back on with such speed he wonders if he has ever done it this fast before. 

“I don’t know yet,” Jaskier’s voice is harsh, breaking in his throat, not with sadness but with anger. The Unseelie Prince is shaking with his rage. “Came here first.”

Jaskier shakes Ciri awake more gently than he had Geralt, but the girl is up just as fast, and she only takes a second to know that there is something wrong, without any words having been spoken. 

“It’s Tiril, isn’t it?” She doesn’t whisper the words with fear; she states them with resignation. 

She almost sounds like she knew that this was going to happen, like she had been aware of the darkness that has settled over them all. Geralt wonders about her powers sometimes. It could be that she knew, after all. It could be that she had seen it in a dream, that she had thought of it and knew it would happen. 

Jaskier nods and he lets go of the lute he had been gripping tightly in one hand, putting it on the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells the girl, and the scene of him, a slightly taller than human, winged creature apologizing to a teenage girl, would be funny if the situation wasn’t so dire. 

“It’s not your fault,” she shakes her head. “We should get going anyway.” 

She has grabbed her dagger and short sword in the few seconds it took for her to get up, and Jaskier nods. 

He leads them outside, and Geralt’s medallion starts vibrating softly, a warm buzz against his chest. He frowns. He can’t see any monsters or magicians around, and there is no evidence of a curse, so what is it picking up on now? It can’t be Jaskier; it has never reacted to the presence of the Unseelie this way. A few seconds ago, before they had crossed the door, it had been quiet. 

“Magic in the air,” Jaskier tells him, and his tongue, long and forked, passes over his sharp teeth as he breathes in the air, a grimace of disgust on his face. “Dark magic, by weak magicians who can’t control their Chaos well.” 

“No trained mage then,” Geralt assesses with relief. At least, it means that whoever they are hunting will be easier to take care of. He _hates_ fights with mages. They always leave him drained, and he doesn’t want to have any harm coming to Ciri. 

Who, now that he thinks of it, could probably scream any mage to death. Now, he would probably pay some good money to see that happening. There are, after all, some pretty terrible mages out there. Although, according to Yennefer, their numbers are dwindling. 

He pulls himself back to the present when Jaskier starts walking, his lips still pulled up. It’s strange, like he is tasting the magic and finding out where it comes from. Geralt will have to ask him about it another day. He has so many questions to ask Jaskier, but he isn’t sure how much the Unseelie would answer. After all, he doesn’t have many reasons to trust Geralt now, not after what was said on the mountain and the way he threatened him the other day.

Ciri grabs his hand and squeezes it, and suddenly Geralt feels less alone with his thoughts. He has his daughter, and he has Jaskier, for now. And soon, they will have Tiril back with them. 

Jaskier leads them to the outside of the town. The bard’s Chaos is rolling off of him in waves, in a way that Geralt can barely begin to comprehend. Yennefer is a powerful sorceress, perhaps the most powerful sorceress left alive on the Continent, and yet, compared to Jaskier right now, her Chaos is only a sparkle next to the sun. 

They walk to the small gathering of hills and woods that surrounds the town, and then there is an acrid smell of blood and fire that makes its way to Geralt’s nostrils, making him balk. Ciri, next to him, gags as well. The air reeks of burnt flesh, of bodies that are being fed into a large fire. 

Jaskier doesn’t stop. It’s almost like smelling this has made him even more motivated. The snarl on his face is so deeply set that Geralt almost doesn’t recognize him. This is an angry Jaskier, in a way he has never seen. He has seen Jaskier wish someone’s death, has been threatened by his friend, has seen Jaskier heartbroken. But truly furious, with a rage that is not just words but movements as well? A rage expressed through his whole body, which becomes almost a new being in the moonlight? It’s marvellous and terrifying, and Geralt is glad he isn’t going to be on the receiving end of the building Chaos.

“Stop,” Jaskier says roughly, extending his hand as they reach one of the hilltops. 

Geralt looks down and if he had been horrified before, this is nothing compared to that. Five women are standing around a low table made of stone. Hedge witches, if he is to go by their outfits and the shaky markings they draw into the stone table, where a bound old woman is slowly writhing in pain, shouting noiselessly. 

More markings have been carved on the arms of the woman. Geralt can only recognize them as Elder markings because he knows what they are supposed to be. He has seen Elder being used in rituals, to strengthen blood magic and nature magic, but this is a bastardization of Elder script, like a confused man’s retelling of what he had once heard of through someone else’s gossip. 

On the far side of the clearing, behind the five witches chanting and dancing around the dying woman on the table, there are three other people. One is a teenager, clearly blind, with large scars over his eyes, another is an old man standing on a crutch, his left foot missing. The last one is a fairly young girl, with her hair cut short savagely, who is holding a baby. The girl looks terrified as she tries to rock the crying baby, and Geralt recognizes Tiril easily.

“Bastards,” he swears. 

Next to the stone table, there is a large firepit, and an axe half-buried in the ground. It’s bloody, and Geralt realizes with horror that those witches have been killing and dismembering people before burning them. And that one of the people they are planning on sacrificing is Tiril. 

Of course, he would have stepped in whether or not Tiril were there, but now, seeing the baby he has started considering as a son in immediate danger makes him growl and reach for his silver sword. Silver may be only for monsters, but those witches have decidedly earned the title of monsters. 

The old woman stops moving and fighting against her bonds, and Geralt realizes she is dead, all the blood in her body drained by the rituals that the witches are chanting. He can’t understand a word they are saying; it’s an odd mix of Elder and Common that he can’t figure out. Sometimes he almost believes he has understood what they are trying to do, then the next sentence appears to contradict everything else that has been said. 

When one of the witches grabs Tiril from the young woman’s arms, Jaskier steps out of the shadows, his wings stretched wide, and he roars. It’s truly an inhuman sound, and for a second Geralt feels fear. He shouldn’t, both because he is a witcher and also simply because he knows Jaskier and knows this isn’t directed towards him. But it’s a primal reaction, and the way Ciri’s hand tightens around her own dagger speaks loudly of that. 

The witches however seem to not feel the terror that fills the witcher and his daughter. Rather, when they hear Jaskier and look up at him, they cheer and clap, yelling in joy. 

“My Lord,” one of them cries out and bows, nearly kneeling as she bends. “We have been waiting for you, we have prepared a feast for you, with fresh blood and-”

“Do not call me your Lord,” Jaskier shouts, and his voice echoes loudly in the emptiness of the night, and the witches stop cheering. “I did not order this!” 

“But my Lord,” another one insists, and she doesn’t bow but her shoulders are hunched. “We are merely celebrating Midsummer and blessing the crops in the way that was instructed to us by the creatures of the night! And you rule over them, my Lord! Aren’t you pleased? You will be able to feast on the flesh of the useless, and we even have a child for you, all young and-” 

“Do not dare,” Jaskier yells again, and the Chaos around him crackles and breaks, the fire dying without so much as an ember left, “presume what any creature of the night wants!”

The night is so dark suddenly, all the stars that had been shining in the summery night seeming to dim as Jaskier steps forward. It isn’t truly a step, more of a movement forward, since Jaskier’s feet aren’t touching the ground. He is flying, his wings beating slowly and lifting the dry dirt, which spirals around his feet. And Chaos roars when he opens his mouth. 

Suddenly, the witches are panicking, trying to run away. They have knives in their hands and at their belts, but they seem to know that this won’t be enough to defend themselves from the lord of darkness that is at their heels now. 

Ciri takes off behind Jaskier with a savage yell, and Geralt swears as he fails to catch her. She could get hurt quite seriously if one of the witches realizes they have multiple opponents, including a rather young teenager. Geralt gets up from his crouching position only a second after, and he follows down into the battle. 

The people he loves are in danger, and he won’t let anyone harm them.

—

Ciri reaches the witch holding Tiril before Jaskier does. The Unseelie Prince is tangled in a fight with three other witches, Chaos fizzling from his fingertips as he tries to restrain it. She knows what he is doing, and she wishes he wasn’t. Those witches don’t deserve his mercy, not after what they did. 

The former princess of Cintra carefully does not think about the corpse of the old woman on the stone altar. Instead, she focuses on the witch in front of her and holds tight to the silver dagger Vesemir gifted her before she left Kaer Morhen at the end of winter. 

“Next year,” he had said while ruffling her hair, “you’ll get a proper silver sword. For now, you can have this, and Geralt will keep you protected.” 

Clearly, that plan had failed, since she was standing against a witch much older than her, and the woman was looking at Ciri with a mixture of pity and amusement. 

“You can’t stop me, little girl,” the witch sneers. “Silver is useless against us.” 

“Give me my brother back,” Ciri snarls, feeling the Chaos in her throat rising. She reins it in, careful of her use of it. “If you give him back, you won’t die.” 

_Well. By my hand, at least_ , Ciri thinks as she hears her father fighting at Jaskier’s side behind her.

“You can’t hurt me,” the witch laughs. “You’re just a little girl who is going to die early.” 

The witch draws her own silver blade and attempts to stab Ciri in the chest. She is holding Tiril still, and it makes her movements clumsy and unbalanced, and Ciri takes advantage of that. 

With a growl, she stabs the woman in the stomach, and ignores the way that human flesh feels under her knife. It’s not the first time she has had to defend herself this way, but it doesn’t leave her any less queasy about it. She doesn’t like it when the monsters she fights are human. She doesn’t understand it, the way she doesn’t quite understand what it is that Nilfgaard wants with her. 

The witch cries out in pain, and Ciri takes the chance to rip Tiril out of her arms. She holds the baby close to her chest, breathing heavily as she gets away from the witch, but she can hear footsteps behind her. She is being chased, and she can’t go as fast as she would usually. Tiril is a moving weight in her arms, terrified and crying, and she can only hold him tighter as she runs.

She stumbles over a rock, falls down on her knees, and suddenly her hair is wrenched back. She yells, more out of anger than out of pain, but she can’t twist back, can’t use her dagger to fight back against the woman. 

“Got you,” the witch says, bitter laughter in her mouth. “You aren’t quite the fast runner you think you are.” 

Ciri growls and kicks backward, hitting a knee, but the woman doesn’t let go. She keeps kicking anyway, feels panic rising in her as she hears the woman unsheathing the dagger hanging on her belt. Then there is the noise of a blade piercing flesh, and Ciri feels droplets of _something_ falling down on her neck. Blood, she guesses, as the corpse of the witch is thrown aside. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt’s voice is panicked as he helps her stand and turns her around carefully, and he sighs in relief when he sees she is holding Tiril. “You two need to get out of here.”

“I can help!” 

“I know you can,” he says gently and holds her face softly, his sword in his other hand. “But right now, I need you to protect Tiril. He is young and scared, and a battle like this is no place for a child. The other prisoners fled when the witches were distracted by Jaskier, and I want you to bring your brother back to the inn.” 

“I’m not leaving you two,” she protests, despite the way Tiril wails in her arms as she attempts to soothe him. “You need me!” 

“Jaskier is an Unseelie Prince and I’m a witcher-” 

“So am I,” she says loudly. “You said you wouldn’t ever send me away!” 

“I’m trying to protect you, Ciri. You have to go away.” 

“ _No!_ ” She shouts the word, and he stumbles backwards. 

The stone altar cracks and the witches shriek even more. Everything shakes for an instant, and Ciri realizes what happened. Unwillingly, she let her Chaos out, again. She looks at Geralt, who looks a bit stunned, and then at Tiril.

The baby is still crying, holding onto her shirt with clenched fists, and she realizes that she could have hurt him. If she hadn’t had any training from Yennefer, if she hadn’t been holding back most of her Chaos, she could have hurt everyone in the meadow, including her family. 

Her eyes are wide and terrified when she looks back at Geralt. “I’m so sorry,” she chokes the words out, tears running down her cheeks. 

“It’s alright,” he says and draws her against him gently. “Please, go back to the town. I promise I’ll bring Jaskier back safely, but I need to know that you are safe as well.” 

She nods as tears fall down her cheeks, and then she takes off in a run again, not looking back. She knows they will be fine. She has to trust that they will be fine, or otherwise, she is going to fall and never get back up.

— 

The silver blade that pushes into Jaskier’s ribs is nothing at first. It doesn’t feel like anything significant, just another small prickle on his skin. Then, the burn settles in and he feels excruciating pain spreading into his limbs. He beats his wings and moves away, trying to keep away from the witches. 

He has been trying to keep them away from Tiril as much as he could without killing them. Jaskier doesn’t like killing humans, even those so awful that they wouldn’t hesitate to murder a child for a ritual, and then turn to him and proclaim that it was done in _his_ name. 

Those witches clearly mistook him for some sort of demon or monster, some local abomination they must have been praying to. Despite their reputation, Unseelies aren’t connected to dark magic the way people think. All fae, whether Seelies or Unseelies, are particularly sensitive to any kind of magic; it just happens that Jaskier is a prince and his connection is stronger than for most. 

His retreat to safety is threatened when one of the witches grabs his left wing and plants her silver dagger into the flesh there. This time, Jaskier does yell, a sound that breaks the night and could threaten the life of hundreds, if he weren’t so well controlled. 

He sinks back to the ground with gasps of pain, his blood running hot while the silver pulses coldly as it poisons him. He can fight it, should be able to, but he can’t defend himself properly while he does so. His opponents seem to have realized his weakness and they grin madly, all united. 

He gathers his Chaos, his whole body trembling from the two stab wounds, and prepares to burn them to a crisp. He has done so before, and he will probably have to do so again. He knows of Seelies who have massacred humans for something as small as settling unknowingly on the borders of their land. He knows the cruelness of Seelies, had seen them murder his people. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t be like them. Yet, he has to defend himself, has to make sure he lives through the night. 

Jaskier lets his Chaos ebb away when a sword pierces through the body of one of the witches, sending blood spatters all over him. Geralt is standing there, fury written across his face, and he quickly discards the dead witch, before turning on the three left. 

Chills run through Jaskier’s body as it tries to fight against the silver, as his magic struggles to heal him, but his attention never wavers as he stares at the witcher. 

Geralt is clearly a superior fighter, and the hedge witches have no chance of getting out of this alive. Yet, he doesn’t try to offer them any surrender, the way Jaskier knows he would usually. Geralt’s heart is so big, his kindness too easily earned. Jaskier has seen it hurting him, time after time, and he hates how much Geralt doesn’t consider himself worth protection. The White Wolf, terrifying and awe-inspiring, is nothing less than a protector. 

Jaskier groans as the first wound seals itself, as silver gets absorbed within his blood. It blurs his vision and the last thing he sees is the shape of the last witch falling, and then he is coughing blood. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s worried voice reaches him as his vision fades toward darkness, the two silver wounds slowly healing. 

“Hey,” he coughs, poisoned blood falling from his lips. “Nice form.” 

“Fuck,” Geralt swears loudly and comes to hold him. “Come on Jaskier, don’t do that to me again!” 

Jaskier chuckles as Geralt’s hands investigate his wounds. “I’ll be fine,” he manages to choke out. “Don’t worry your lovely head.” 

He forgets what he is supposed to say or not, what he can do or not. His hand, claws reemerging as he loses control of himself, reaches for Geralt, and he touches the skin, his nails dragging across Geralt’s cheek. 

“So beautiful, my love,” he whispers, and then the darkness engulfs him as his body tries to heal itself.

He screams.

[](https://hostpic.xyz/image/B8hQ8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D Oopsie? Last chapter shall be up tomorrow!! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment &/or leave a kudos! They brighten my days and have legit made me squeal before lmao.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go... Last chapter folks! Also it might be like. 10k so pace yourselves lmao
> 
> Lots of love to be had here, and lots of family :D
> 
> Enjoy <3!

Geralt cradles Jaskier in his arms and tries his hardest not to think about what is happening. He can see the wound on Jaskier’s wing slowly closing, silver oozing out of it in pearls, but he can also feel the way the prince in his arms is yelling in pain. It tears at his heart, makes him ache and want desperately to take away that pain. 

A violent shaking wracks Jaskier’s body and the scream he lets out right then is downright inhuman. The sun is slowly rising over them, but Jaskier shows no sign of stopping soon. The two silver wounds are like poison to him, burning him alive, and Geralt has no idea how to relieve the bard’s pain. 

So he holds him, holds him and prays to the gods that they will be kind. He has never been a believer, but for Jaskier he is willing to believe and become the most faithful man on the Continent. 

When Jaskier’s wings thrash and nearly throw him off, Geralt waits for the moment to pass by quickly sending a prayer to Halena, the first Unseelie and first servant of the Moon. Jaskier’s tale of her life had clearly been a loving, admiring one, and despite her not being a goddess, Geralt finds it fitting to invoke the first Unseelie, to ask her to protect her descendant. 

Jaskier’s claws scratch at his arms, tearing apart Geralt’s shirt, but the witcher doesn’t budge. He holds Jaskier as the Midsummer sun rises over them, and he prays for his love’s safety. 

He hasn’t forgotten the words Jaskier said before he lost all consciousness and started screaming. _My love_. That’s what he had called him. He can’t help but wonder if Jaskier saw someone else, hallucinated someone else’s face, or if Jaskier indeed meant those words to be for Geralt. He chooses to believe that they were for him, despite the little possibility of truth there is to it. 

Jaskier’s terrible screams finally stop near midday. The smell of rotting corpses nearby is starting to rise, the bodies of the witches bloating slightly in the warmth of the sun, and Geralt decides it is safe to bring Jaskier back to town. Maybe not safe, he amends to himself, but nobody would question a witcher with a creature in his arms. Even if they did, Geralt wouldn’t answer. He would rather run himself through with his own swords than betray Jaskier’s trust again.

He gathers Jaskier properly in his arms, putting one hand underneath the man’s knees and the other underneath his shoulders, and he lifts him up, walking with him slowly. 

It’s a long walk, and Jaskier’s body is heavy as he rests, his head nestled against Geralt’s torso, but Geralt doesn’t even think about being annoyed by it. Rather, the weight comforts him, especially when Jaskier sighs and moves even closer, his nose buried in between Geralt’s pectorals. It sparks flutters in Geralt, who scolds himself. Jaskier is hurt and has no control over what he is doing, this is in no way an indication of affection.

When they reach town, people are celebrating. There are girls dancing in the streets, colourful dresses twirling around them as they tease and wink at young men dressed in similar fashion, while kids shout amongst each other as they get to eat candies and other sweets, trading and giggling. Parents are looking on the scene fondly, and grandparents are cajoling their grandchildren. The houses are decorated with flowers and vines, and the sun shines brightly. It is an almost idyllic scene, with the air smelling overwhelmingly sweet from the flowers and candies.

Everything stops when Geralt walks through the streets, bearing Jaskier in his Unseelie form in his arms. Screams rise quickly into the air, and all the nearest townspeople still, some partway through a dance movement. It seems as if they have even stopped breathing, scared of what the creature in the witcher’s arms might do to them. It is unnatural, seeing life crumble down in an instant this way, but in the life of a witcher, it happens unfortunately often. 

Geralt pays no attention to them. He walks to the inn where he had sent Ciri, trying to not let the fear for the man's life overwhelm him. Jaskier stirs when Geralt maneuvers him so that they can both pass through the door, but he falls back asleep in an instant, nestling closer to the man holding him. 

Inside, people startle and turn to him. Ciri is pacing, one of her hands on her dagger. There is a woman close to her, who clearly had been trying to talk to her. Knowing his daughter, she had probably not been very responsive. Ciri stops moving and her eyes shine with relief when they fall on Geralt. 

The locals are half risen out of their chairs, a handful of them having a hand on the knives they had used for their food, some on swords at their side. Tightening his hold on Jaskier, Geralt fixes them with a glare, something he likes to consider himself good at. 

“Geralt!” Ciri runs to him and looks at Jaskier worryingly. “What’s happening to him? Did he get hurt? Is he dying?” 

The men straighten, weapons in hand, and Geralt sees one of the men take a small, tentative step forward. He snarls at him, and Ciri startles, tugging on his arm. 

"Come on," she says, ignoring the men around them. "Let's get him some rest." 

She turns around and then frowns at the wall of armed men still blocking their way. 

"Move," she commands, snarling just like her father, and the men glance at each other, unsure of what is happening.

"We don't want no monsters in our town," one of them feels brave enough to talk. "Take that creature outside!" 

"Who do you think you are to tell a witcher what to do?" Ciri isn't quite using her powers, but there is a timbre to her voice that is similar. She is restraining herself this time, using all of Yennefer's teachings to not explode with her Chaos. "Move out of the way." 

"Don't get into business that doesn't concern you, kid," the same man snaps at her. 

"And don't get in my way," Geralt growls, stepping forward, still holding Jaskier close. "If you don't want any monsters in your town, then you'll let me do my work, and shut up in the meantime." 

The man startles a bit, his grip on his weapon tightening. "You don't scare me, witcher!" 

"I highly doubt that," Geralt says, stepping closer again, Jaskier groaning and burrowing himself closer in his arms. "So I'll say it once again. Get the fuck out of my way."

Shaking his head, the man keeps his weapon pointed at Geralt. "This is our town and-" 

"Enough, Andre," a voice booms, and they turn to the innkeeper, who has just left his counter and is forcing the men to put down their weapons. "You'll leave the witcher alone, or I'll deal with you myself." 

"You're protecting that freak?" the man, Andre, asks, betrayal clear in his voice.

"I'm protecting the _town_ , and you would do well to shut up and get out of his way. If we ever have a monster that comes to haunt our streets, we will be happy to have a witcher around. Go back to the festival and to your wife, and don't come back until you are less drunk." 

"Fuck you," Andre starts insulting the man, but he doesn't have much time to do so. The innkeeper hits him square in the face, and Andre falls down. With one more snarl, and a few more insults, he runs out of the inn, and everyone else calms down, slowly but surely. 

Geralt turns to the innkeeper and nods at him. The man only nods back and glances at Jaskier with a slightly fearful look. 

"He won't harm you," Ciri assures the innkeeper. "Thank you for intervening." 

"Someone's got to keep the peace, and it's not that idiot we call an alderman who is doing it. Witchers aren't all that bad, anyway. Good at killing monsters, and they pay good coin when they’re around. Never been cheated by a witcher, but I can't say as much about that rat Andre." 

Ciri smiles a bit, and rummages in the pocket of her trousers, finding a coin and extending it to him. "Here. I know it's not much, but it's good payment for what you did for us." 

"Keep your coin, girl," the innkeeper says with a smile. "Buy yourself something, not someone's kindness." 

She nods, smiling a bit, and turns to Geralt. "Let's go now."

“He isn’t dying,” Geralt answers her earlier question as they make their way to the stairs. The girl is just as worried as he is. She loves Jaskier like a father, he is sure of that. 

She peers at the Unseelie. “What happened then?” 

“I'll tell you later,” he softens his tone, following her. “Where is Tiril?

“Sleeping in our room,” she answers, leading him upstairs. “I just came back downstairs to get something to eat, and then you arrived. I wasn’t intending to leave him alone for long, I swear!” 

“I trust you. I know you love your little brother and wouldn’t ever do anything to harm him knowingly.” 

She smiles widely when he says the word “brother” and he gives her back a small smile. She opens the door and helps bring Jaskier inside the room, and then onto the free bed. 

“Will he be alright?” She comes to sit next to Jaskier, smoothing his hair with a worried look on her face. “I don’t want to lose him again.” 

“I don’t want that either,” he assures her. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure he will be alright, I promise that to you, Ciri. He said something about healing himself before passing out, so I think he needed the time to rest, to drive off the silver poisoning.” 

“I wish I could kill those witches myself,” she growls, her hand in Jaskier’s hair tightening ever so slightly. “For hurting Tiril and Jaskier, they deserved their deaths!” 

“I understand that you are angry,” he says and sits next to her, drawing her in his arms. “But killing is our last resort as witchers, you must understand that. Those witches weren’t trained properly, and their Chaos was weak. But if they had been Aretuza-trained sorceresses? We would have stood very little chance in a fight, even with Jaskier being an Unseelie Prince. You can’t allow your heart to lead you into trouble.” 

“So you would have left them alive, if you could? Despite the fact that they murdered people, and that they nearly killed Tiril and Jaskier?” 

She is testing him, looking at him with a certain edge in her eyes. He doesn’t want to lie to her, can’t lie to her. She’s his daughter, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t make the mistakes he had made in the past with the people he cared about. 

“I can’t say I would have. You know how much I care about Jaskier, Tiril, and you. Seeing you endangered was the worst thing for me, you understand?” He kisses her forehead gently. “But if you ever get in another fight like this, with someone you care about getting injured, you must understand that your emotions might hinder you during that fight.” 

“Is that why you haven’t told Jaskier you love him? Because you don’t want your emotions to bother you?” She tilts her head and crosses her arms, moving back a little. “It’s a bit stupid, dad.” 

“That isn’t the point,” he tries to argue, but she cuts him off. 

“Isn’t it? Because you are allowed to be angry in a fight, and you use that anger to power yourself through it, but I’m not. Do you think love is a weakness?” 

She is pushing, searching for an answer, and he doesn’t know what to tell her. Before meeting Yennefer, he would have instantly said that yes, love is a mistake. He would never even have considered the idea that love could be something he would get to have in his life. Then he had made his wish, he had fallen in love with the sorceress, and their whirlwind romance had ended rather harshly. It had taken him a few months to realize that rather than being in love with her, he had been deeply in love with Jaskier all along. He had pushed away his best friend, the man he loved, and then… 

When he looks at Ciri, who is taking a recently awakened Tiril into her arms, cradling him as he starts crying, he knows what to tell her. 

“I’m sorry, Ciri,” he says gently, letting her stay standing while he remains seated. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I just want the best for you, for all of us. Love isn’t a weakness; rather, it is the greatest strength you can ever have. Even if it isn’t returned. Even if the love you have is simply for yourself.” 

She sniffles a bit, her eyes red with tears, and she keeps attempting to soothe Tiril. “Is it a weakness to love me then?” 

_Oh_. How could he ever have let her think that? He adores her. She has brightened his life, made everything better, and… He has never told her properly, beyond a few nights ago when they both first acknowledged the bond between them. 

“Ciri,” he says gently and draws her closer to him. “I love you. So much. I know I don’t say it, but I am glad to have you in my life. You are wonderful, and the gods must have smiled upon me the day they decided I would get such an amazing daughter. I’m sorry I never said it before. I love you, Cirilla.” 

She gapes at him, the tears that had been in her eyes slowly rolling down her cheeks. “You do?” 

“Of course,” he tells her, taking the crying child from her arms. “You’re my daughter, and I adore you. My life is better for having you in it.” 

She sobs slightly and comes to hug him tightly. He keeps Tiril against his shoulder as he hugs her back, but the baby doesn’t stop his crying and wailing. 

“You’re kind of ruining the moment, Tiril,” Ciri jokes around her tears and takes her brother back in her arms. “What’s wrong, little one?” 

She sits back on the bed, and Tiril reaches out towards Jaskier, calming a little as he sees the sleeping man. 

“Oh,” she breathes out and smiles gently. “You are worried about him, aren’t you?” 

Geralt feels an overwhelming amount of fondness rising in his heart and he goes to grab a cleaning cloth from the water basin at the edge of the room. He cleans Jaskier’s chest quickly, washing off the blood present there after removing the bard’s shirt. 

“Come on,” he tells Ciri when he is done. “It might do him some good to lay down with Jaskier.” 

She nods and puts the baby on Jaskier’s chest, and suddenly his cries simmer down. He grabs at Jaskier’s chest hair and burrows closer to him, his sniffles fading as he falls back asleep. 

“I think you’ll have a hard time separating the two of them,” Ciri says, a small grin on her face. “We’ll probably have to continue traveling with Jaskier…” 

The idea fills him with relief, and she grins wider. He rolls his eyes at her and drags her into his arms. 

“Well, that’s a hardship I suppose I’ll have to endure,” he teases, only to hear her giggle as she hugs him. “How will I ever survive traveling with the man I love, my daughter, and my newly found son?” 

She smiles happily, a genuine and bright smile, and kisses his cheek. They’ll figure out the rest later, when Jaskier is awake, when they are all feeling better. For now, Geralt basks in his daughter’s love and in the peace that is slowly coming back to the room.

—

Jaskier wakes up slowly, his eyes struggling to adapt to the light pouring into the room. He can feel his claws digging into a mattress, and he feels a weight on his torso, something slightly wet against his neck, and he blinks repeatedly as he looks down. 

Settled against his neck, Tiril is sleeping soundly, his little chest rising up and down. The wetness Jaskier was feeling is the result of the baby’s drooling, and, while it does make him feel a bit like a used towel, it also makes an undeniable warmth rise in him as he realizes that the child is comfortable sleeping on him while he is in his Unseelie form. 

Jaskier loves the baby so much already, and as he comes back to himself slowly, he remembers the events that had led to his passing out. He brings his body back to his human form and curls a protective hand around Tiril. He can’t really say this, probably shouldn’t, but he considers the child in his arms to be his own son. As with Ciri, he has fallen in love with this child already. He wants to spend lifetimes with him, to raise him and see him grow to be a happy man. Jaskier only wants the best for this child, and he has never felt more than now the craving to be a father. 

Having a family is something that he had given up on many years ago. When he had fled his homeland, when he had left behind his people… He had abandoned the hope of having a family of his own. But these last few days, with Ciri and Geralt, caring for Tiril, and enjoying each other’s presence, have sparked that buried desire in him again. Without even noticing, he has started imagining himself as part of Geralt’s family, as a co-parent to Ciri. He should feel ashamed; after all, his Destiny is not tied to the girl’s, and he has no claim over her the way Geralt does. Still, the affection that he bears for her isn’t easily forgotten. He has watched her grow up, watched her transform from a talkative toddler to a serious young princess, and now to an easy-going witcher apprentice. He loves her more than he can admit to himself.

Tiril stirs in his arms, and the baby yawns as his eyes open slowly. It’s such a simple yet endearing gesture that Jaskier can’t help but smile back widely. 

The door of the room opens then, and instinctively he clutches Tiril closer to himself, reaching for his Chaos. He’s ready for a fight, despite the lingering exhaustion of his body, and he will do everything needed to protect the child in his arms. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt breathes out, and Jaskier can’t convince himself he’s imagining the relief in the witcher’s voice.

Geralt takes a few steps inside the room, Ciri walking in behind him. The smile that she directs him is brighter than any other before, and she runs to him, moving past her father and almost falling down as she eagerly sits next to him on the bed. 

“How are you feeling?” She is eager, reaching out and pulling back as if afraid of hurting him. “Do you want me to take Tiril?” 

He nods and she takes the baby from his arms as he sits up slowly. He yawns and stretches, caressing her cheek softly, and she smiles again. 

“I’m feeling just fine dear. A bit tired, but nothing that a good night of sleep won’t fix. What did I miss while I was out?” 

“Geralt went to see the town’s alderman.” Ciri grins a bit at her father, who is still standing in front of the open door. “Maybe he should be the one to tell you about it. He’s the new gossip of Crunne.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes and closes the door. “It was really nothing.” 

“You’ve always been stingy with the details,” Jaskier teases and pats the other side of the bed. “Come sit too. I shall be surrounded by witchers, and shall thus be a happy bard.” 

The white haired witcher shakes his head, huffing fondly, but complies with Jaskier’s demand, and isn’t that a wonder? Jaskier almost wants to push his luck, to ask for a caress or a kiss on the cheek, perhaps, but it would be in bad taste. He and Geralt are just rebuilding their relationship, and he doesn’t want to push the boundaries of their friendship just yet. There is something in his chest that tells him that perhaps it wouldn’t ruin it, but still. Better be careful with his feelings, especially after what happened on the mountain. 

It annoys him, that it still hurts, after so long. It’s been almost a year now, and he had done so many things to try and get over it. Sleeping with Valdo Marx, staying in a forest to try and reconnect with his roots only to fail, singing his heart out… Even Geralt’s apology, as much as it means to him, hasn’t healed all the wounds in Jaskier’s heart. He had thought Geralt valued their friendship, that he saw the two of them as equals, but then the mountain happened and—

A hand, rough and callused by years of sword fighting, takes hold of his own, startling him out of his thoughts. Geralt is looking worried, and he puts his free hand on Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve been unconscious for a whole day and I don’t want to overlook anything that could affect you. We didn’t call a healer because, well. You aren’t human, and I don’t think anyone but a mage could have helped you?”

Jaskier smiles and squeezes the hand holding his own. “Yes, I don’t think that would have helped. My body would have rejected any outside help, to heal from the silver poisoning. I heal better on my own than with anyone else’s help, to be quite honest.” 

“When the Djinn-” 

“Well, I didn’t want to let you know just then. I let Yennefer’s Chaos reach the Djinn’s hold on me, but if you hadn’t been there, I would have been able to take care of it on my own. …I think.”

Geralt shakes his head fondly, and the hand that had been on Jaskier’s forehead falls away. “Of course.” 

Ciri stands up, still holding Tiril. “I’m going to get some milk for Tiril, you two keep talking. Dad, you have to tell him about the alderman. Jaskier will love it!” 

“Ah yes, you must tell me!” Jaskier turns a pleading look to Geralt. “You cannot deprive me of a good story! Whatever shall I sing of, if not your praises? I am, after all, your bard.” 

Ciri slips out of the room with a slight giggle as Geralt looks at Jaskier with a shocked expression. “You are?” 

Jaskier looks away, sighing a bit. Of course he is. Even when he was furious, when his heart broke with each mention of the witcher, he sang the praises of Geralt of Rivia. Love has made him a fool, and he can’t bring himself to regret it. His love for Geralt, while bruised for now, is still alive and beating, and it will always be. There is no universe in which he doesn’t love Geralt. 

“Of course I am. I know you might not want that, but I would like to accompany you and Ciri as you go with Tiril.” Moving his hand away, Jaskier twists his fingers together, anxious energy running trough him. “I understand that it might be dangerous for Ciri, after all I’m quite well known and I could get you all recognized, but I don’t wish to be parted from you three.” 

It’s all Jaskier can say without his heart bursting out of his chest and his feelings falling from his mouth in incessant chatter. He needs more time before he can even think about telling Geralt about his feelings. He doubts the witcher would send him away, not again, but he is too afraid regardless of what he believes. 

“I want that too,” Geralt surprises him by saying, and when he looks up, the witcher’s golden eyes are full of tenderness. “Ciri and Tiril need you, and I… I need you too. I’m tired of trying to hide it. I want you by my side, I just… I want you to stay with me, with us, and to be a part of our family. Of _my_ family.” 

“Geralt…” Jaskier is a bit at a loss for words, something that is happening much to often since he met this peculiar witcher. “What are you saying?” 

Geralt huffs slightly, and he is the one who looks away this time. “Aren’t you the poet out of the two of us? The one who is supposed to know when someone speaks in half-words?” 

“I am,” Jaskier agrees. “But if you are saying what I think you are, I think you should say it.” 

“I love you,” Geralt keeps his eyes away from Jaskier. “I don’t know when I started loving you, but I know I was scared shitless of it, and I know that… you are important to me. I know that I’ve wanted to see you again since the second I made you leave my side. I don’t have any right to love you, to say that I care about you, after what I said, how I acted towards you for years, but… I love you. And I had to tell you.” 

Geralt doesn’t move away from the bed, but he still doesn’t look back at Jaskier, and the bard half wonders if this is some kind of hallucination. He can’t quite believe it, after all. All that he had hoped for during those years spent traveling at the witcher’s side, all his dreams coming true? It’s almost too much to be real. 

And yet, the words ring true. They aren’t his own words put into Geralt’s mouth, and his exhaustion is too real to be fake. So this is real. Geralt just confessed his love to Jaskier, and Jaskier has no idea how to react. He doesn’t know which words to say, which gentle touch would be alright. 

Yes, he loves Geralt too, and if whatever had been said on the mountain hadn’t happened, he would jump at this opportunity and kiss the witcher senseless. He still wants to now, but he is afraid, too. He doesn’t want to put his heart in jeopardy like that again. What if he is wrong and Geralt changes his mind? He doesn’t want to test out the theory, so he simply sighs and twists his hands again. 

“Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it,” Jaskier clears his throat a little, trying to sound less stilted. “I really do. And I’m happy to hear that, you have no idea. I’ve been… I’ve been in love with you for years. But right now… We have just started being friends again. I can’t throw my heart in your hands like that again, not after …” 

When he trails off, Geralt turns to him. “Not after what I said back then, right? I ruined everything with my anger…” 

“Just… give me some time. Please. I only need time, that’s all I’m asking for.”

Geralt nods. “I can do that.” 

Jaskier smiles softly. “Thank you. So now, will you tell me what happened with the alderman?” 

The change in conversation is accepted with a slight smile, and Geralt starts telling him about his encounter with the alderman. 

Jaskier falls back asleep to the rumbling of Geralt’s voice as he explains that he publicly exposed the alderman for siding with the hedge witches…

—

They leave Crunne three days after, and they don’t speak of their confessions. The air is more relaxed between them though, and it’s easier to be around one another now. They don’t try to hide the affection they have for one another, nor the affection they have for the children with them. 

Tiril adores both Jaskier and Geralt, but it seems the baby prefers sleeping on Jaskier at night, and cuddling with Geralt during the day. Ciri holds him a fair amount of time too, and the days pass this way, peaceful and happy. When Geralt goes on a hunt, he sometimes brings Ciri with him, in which case Jaskier is left tending the baby alone. It’s never an issue, but Tiril seems to know when they aren’t all within the same space, because he never quite seems at rest whenever this happens. 

Jaskier, Ciri, and Geralt are also developing a way of talking without sounds. It’s not too hard, but it’s also not the one that is used on the rest of the Continent, quite probably. It is theirs, though. Something that belongs only to their little family, and it always brings Jaskier joy to think about it that way. Ciri and Tiril are his family now, and so is Geralt, and he has never felt quite so happy. 

He can feel winter coming to settle on the land when Geralt comes to find him after dinner at an inn. Jaskier has just finished a performance, and he is still smiling widely, his tankard raised to the innkeeper, who nods, when Geralt’s hand settles on his shoulder. 

“We need to talk,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is too afraid of knowing what this is about to even protest when the witcher leads him outside with a strong hand. 

“If this is about this winter,” Jaskier starts without waiting, “I know you and Ciri will be going back to Kaer Morhen, and I would completely understand if you took Tiril with you. After all, I’m sure he will be perfectly safe in the Keep with your family to watch over him and- 

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts with a slight smile. “I wanted to invite you to come with us.” 

“Come with you,” Jaskier repeats a bit dumbly. “What do you mean, come with you?” 

“I mean, travel with us to Kaer Morhen, and spend the winter there with us. You would be safe there, and Tiril can’t be separated from you for so long. He already starts crying if you aren’t there for an hour, so I can’t imagine what three to five months could bring. And Ciri has also asked me to ask you to come.” 

“What about you?” Jaskier bites his lips as he asks, nervousness clear in his movements. “Is that what you want too?” 

“Of course it is,” Geralt smiles again. “I told you, you’re my family too. I want to introduce you to the rest of the pack.” 

Jaskier can only breathe out in astonishment. Geralt has been getting better with his words, with expressing himself in general, but whenever he says things like this, he makes Jaskier’s heart beat a little faster. It brings back to the forefront of his mind the love confession he had found himself rejecting, despite his best intentions. And each time, it makes him realize he is getting closer to wanting to open his heart again, to wanting to let himself be loved by Geralt, while he also loves him. It scares him a little, but mostly he is excited, because this means a return to who he truly believes himself to be. 

“I suppose I could come up to the witchers’ fortress for a winter,” Jaskier says with a half smile. “I’m sure I would find many stories to inspire me there. Perhaps I’ll finally hear stories about your childhood too. Hear about how the White Wolf amused himself as a child, how he climbed over the walls… Meet your infamous siblings as well.” 

“I still don’t know how you managed not to meet them,” Geralt chuckles. “Eskel and Lambert have been threatening to track you down to thank you for your songs.” 

Jaskier doesn’t blush, but he does feel a little warm at the compliment. He can read it in Geralt’s crinkled smile, in the way his eyes stay warm. Geralt’s affection is a bit like being hit by a brick wall. For years, Jaskier thought that he was unworthy of it, that he would never have it, but now… He finds himself bearing the full brunt of it. And he _loves_ it. 

Geralt is warm, everyday. His eyes, golden embers that always made shivers run through Jaskier’s body, are now fires that never dim. They follow Jaskier in the evenings when he is performing, never leaving him. They warm Jaskier to his core, make him feel precious in ways that he has never felt before, and yet… Yet, Jaskier hesitates. He takes his time, allows himself to bask in this affection without returning it, not truly. 

He does his best to return it still. He pays for the food, for the rooms. He takes care of Geralt after hunts, makes sure that his wounds are well treated. He can’t say it again, but he can show it, the way he always has. Jaskier loves his witcher, more than he has loved almost anyone. Geralt gives him love freely now, and Jaskier drinks it eagerly, savors it. 

“I’ll be very happy to meet them and compose for them as well,” Jaskier says gently, and he looks at his friend, takes in the large scar he has over his left eye, the way it makes him even more handsome than he should rightly be. “Even if I will always remain your bard. Your family is important to you, hence it is important to me as well.”

The answering smile does make him blush, and so does the way Geralt’s hand comes to cup his face gently. The witcher rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing in peacefully, and the bard closes his eyes. He enjoys the closeness and the gentle way he is being held. 

Yes, they might not be together, they might not have shared a kiss, but they are on their way to being something. They are on their way to becoming closer to a real family. And Jaskier… Jaskier can’t wait for the moment he’ll let himself trust in the love he feels from Geralt. 

— 

The path to Kaer Morhen is cold, winter biting at their fingers. Ciri holds Tiril close to her chest, the baby bundled in warm covers against her. He has grown so much since Geralt rescued him. 

The witcher watches his family, trying to ignore the nerves that have settled in his stomach. He can hear the wind howling in his home, carrying the loud clashing of training swords, the laughter of his brothers. There is contentment rising in him, the pleasure of being home, of finally returning where he belongs. But there is also a slight fear, a wonder of whether or not they’ll be approving of Geralt’s newfound family. 

Yennefer will be there soon too, very probably. The sorceress had promised Ciri to come back for the winter, to keep on with their lessons on Chaos. So Geralt has one more person’s opinion to worry about, especially considering Jaskier and Yennefer’s less than friendly relationship before. 

“You know there is no need to worry, don’t you?” Jaskier jostles his shoulder lightly. “I’m sure your family will be more than kind to us. And even if they don’t like me, I’m sure they will allow me to spend the winter there with you and the kids.” 

“Tiril’s screams of bloody murder whenever you aren’t here would probably convince them otherwise,” Geralt answers with a smile. “How did you know?” 

“That you’re nervous? I’ve known you for nearly twenty-five years, Geralt. When you are nervous, you have a way of acting it. Your steps are closer, your shoulders more tense. You rely more on your witcher senses than on your human senses in those moments. Points to the case, you’ve got a hand on your sword, despite the fact that we haven’t felt any threat in the last five days, at the very least.” 

Jaskier’s blue eyes are warm, and Geralt wants to reach out, to kiss the cold lips of the Unseelie Prince. He doesn’t, but he has to resist the urge with a will of iron. He hears Ciri giggling behind them, and he turns a slight glare to her. It only serves to make his daughter giggle louder. 

“I can’t wait to have a bath in the hot spring,” the girl says and caresses the head of her younger brother. “I bet Tiril will love it as well. It’s so warm down there, and it feels so good!” 

“Hot springs?” Jaskier enquires with a wide smile. “Neither of you had said anything about that before!” 

“Couldn’t give out all the secrets now, could we?” Ciri grins. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and lets the two chatter as he leads Roach around the last bend in the road. Then, the Keep stands in front of them, regal and beautiful, iron gates standing to protect it. 

“We’re home,” he says without turning to his companions, and all the nervousness is gone from him. He has missed this place during the year.

The gate is thrown open a few seconds after, and Geralt barely has time to think before his brothers are hurling themselves at him. He finds himself on the ground in an instant, and he laughs loudly as the two other witchers laugh too. 

“Took your time coming home,” Lambert says as he pulls himself back to his feet. “What delayed you for so long? Got too far up your own arse you couldn’t find your way out?”

“No swearing in front of the kids,” Jaskier’s voice comes from behind.

Eskel and Lambert look at the bard as they get back upright, and it’s Lambert who talks again, with all the finesse he doesn’t have. 

“What fucking kids? The girl’s old enough to have heard swearing before.” 

“The girl has a name, Uncle Lambert,” Ciri laughs and moves forward. “It’s good to see you again!” 

“We don’t even get a hug, pup?” Eskel complains, but he is smiling anyway. “What happened to your manners while you were with Geralt all year? He only grunted at you, never speaking, and you forgot how to behave like a normal person?” 

“Can’t hug you when I’m holding my little brother,” Ciri grins. “Jask, you mind holding him?” 

Jaskier chuckles slightly and takes Tiril from her without a complaint. “Go hug your uncles.” 

Ciri executes that order to perfection, launching herself into Eskel’s arms and laughing loudly when he twirls her around. Geralt can’t help but smile at the scene, despite nearly getting kicked by his daughter as she spins in the air. Behind them, Lambert is looking at Jaskier and Tiril with a frown, and Geralt hopes that he keeps his mouth shut for a few more minutes. They just need the time to explain what the situation is without Lambert ruining it with his big mouth. 

Thankfully, Lambert is quickly distracted by a little blonde-haired fury, who throws herself at his torso and nearly sends him tumbling down. 

“So, who might you two be?” Eskel asks as he moves forward toward Jaskier.

Geralt watches Jaskier shift Tiril from two arms to holding him with just one arm. He can see the way the Unseelie Prince is using his Chaos to warm the baby as well; it’s a subtle thing, barely a tremor in the air, and Geralt doubts anyone else can sense it. But he has spent months looking at Jaskier, learning to know everything new about him the way Jaskier seems to know everything about him. 

“Jaskier, master bard and wanderer of the Path alongside the White Wolf,” Jaskier answers cheekily, extending a hand. “I happen to have sung quite the number of ballads for your brother. And this is Tiril.” 

“Your son?” Eskel asks as he shakes Jaskier’s hand, before looking at the baby. “He’s cute.” 

“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles. “You’re Eskel, right? Geralt talked about you.” 

“That’s me alright. He also talked quite a fair bit about you.” Eskel grins and turns to his brother. “It was time you brought your bard here! You’ve been bemoaning his loss all year, I bet.” 

“Up until midsummer,” Jaskier grins too, his teeth a little too sharp as he winks to Geralt. “Things have been better since then though.” 

Lambert walks forward, Ciri having run into the courtyard as she yells for Vesemir. Geralt doesn’t have a chance to intercept his younger brother; the youngest wolf is already looking Jaskier up and down, his eyes stopping on the baby. 

“So, is that who we aren’t supposed to swear in front of? It looks young enough not to care.” 

“He,” Geralt grabs his brother by the neck, “is a human baby, so please remember that.” 

“What is it to you, isn’t it the bard’s son?” Lambert shakes him off with a slight growl, and they all start walking inside the courtyard.

Ciri is, as he had half expected, nowhere in sight. He isn’t worried. She must be looking for Vesemir, and, knowing the old man, he is probably dozing off in the library. It’ll take her a few minutes to drag him back to the courtyard, so Geralt growls back, walking Roach to the stables. 

“He’s my son too,” he snaps. “Don’t even think about calling him ‘it’ again, you hear?” 

“Damn,” Lambert whistles as he follows him to the stables. “Didn’t know you could have kids.” 

“Adopted him,” Geralt rolls his eyes as he grabs the bags they left on Roach and throws them over his shoulder. “Use the three braincells you have, idiot.” 

“So what, you finally shagged the bard?” 

Geralt shoves Lambert away. “Don’t talk about him like that, fucker.” 

“Hey, I thought we said no swearing around Tiril?” Jaskier is leaning against the door of the stables with a smile, Eskel looking smug behind him. “What kind of example are you setting for him?” 

“Jask, he can’t hear me. I’m sure he’ll be fine with the knowledge that I swear.” 

“That’ll just encourage him to ask to know swearwords later on. You want to be the one to come up with a sign for ‘fucker’ or should I do that?” 

“We are not coming up with a sign for that,” Geralt shakes his head with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll do that on his own.” 

Jaskier’s offended look is enough to send him laughing again, and Lambert grins. 

“I like you,” Lambert says as he walks forward. “I feel like you’re going to be fun to be around.”

“I’d like to say the same,” Jaskier grins, “But you’ve been swearing around my son, and I’ve also heard quite a lot about you.” 

Lambert laughs, not offended, and Geralt walks closer. 

“Here is your pack,” he tells Jaskier, and he knows his voice dips lower, that fondness comes through. He can see it in the way Eskel’s smug smile widens and Lambert grins mockingly. “Let me take Tiril? I’ll take you two to your room.” 

They’ve just finished exchanging burdens, Jaskier now holding his pack while Geralt keeps the brown-skinned baby in his arms, shushing him gently when he fusses, when Ciri bursts out of the Keep. She’s tugging on Vesemir’s hand and grinning, and they walk out to meet her.

“Dad! Ves doesn’t want to believe that I’ve got a brother!” she shouts loudly in the courtyard. “He thinks I’m lying!” 

“I did not say-” Vesemir stops in his tracks. “Julian?” 

“Vesemir!” Jaskier exclaims loudly, and his pack is thrown to the ground as he starts running, colliding with Vesemir. “It’s been so long!” 

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again, old friend,” Vesemir laughs and returns the embrace. “What are you doing here?” 

“Geralt invited me. I’m his bard after all!” 

“You’re Jaskier?” 

Geralt has truly no idea what’s going on. Jaskier and Vesemir are chattering, apparently knowing each other from long before, and he and his brothers are staring at the scene, dumbfounded. Ciri is looking excited at the new development and she jumps up and down, tugging on Jaskier’s cloak. 

“Jaskier! You never mentioned you knew Vesemir!” 

“Did you ever ask?” He rises an eyebrow and lightly pokes her nose, which has the effect of making her giggle. “There are many things you don’t know about me just yet, little one.” 

Ciri pouts at being called ‘little one’ and she turns to her father. “Did you know?” 

“No,” Geralt manages to get the words out of his throat, surprise making it dry. “I had no idea that they knew each other.” 

Vesemir shrugs, remorseless. “If I had known you were talking of Julian, I would have told you we knew each other. I didn't know one of my boys was traveling with my old friend!” 

“I didn’t really know you were Vesemir’s son until now,” Jaskier says apologetically. “Had I known, I would have said something sooner.” 

Geralt is a bit stunned still. Seeing his father embracing the man he loves is… something he had not expected right away. He has never even fathomed the idea that Jaskier might know other witchers than him. After all, the Unseelie Prince has been explicit in saying that he does not know Geralt’s brothers, so how could he have guessed that Jaskier knew his father?

Jaskier moves toward him, worry clouding his eyes, and he reaches for Geralt’s hand. “I did not mean to upset you.” 

“No, it’s not…” Geralt sighs, takes a long breath in and smiles. “I’m not upset. It’s just strange to see you and my father like this. But I’m glad you’ll know someone else than just Ciri and me.” 

Jaskier’s answering smile is so bright that Geralt can feel his own widen. He is so in love with this man, it’s almost ridiculous. How could he have missed those feelings, for so many years? There is nothing clearer to him now than how much he loves his family, and Jaskier is his family. Geralt chose him, and he will never regret it. 

After that, Ciri picks up Jaskier’s bags, sighing loudly, but she gasps as she realizes something.

“Ves! You haven’t met Tiril,” she exclaims loudly as the baby stretches against Geralt’s chest. “You’ve gotta meet him!” 

The old man frowns a bit, looks around for a second, before his eyes settle on the bundle of clothes in Geralt’s arm. “Is that…?” 

Geralt nods and moves forward, showing Tiril’s sleepy face to his father. “This is Tiril, Jaskier’s adoptive son.”

“And yours too,” Jaskier adds gently, taking his bag from Ciri. “He adores you, and we both know he has been trying to sign ‘dad’ at you for a while now.” 

“Is he deaf or mute?” Vesemir asks, looking at the child with wonder. “It’s been a long time since there was a baby in Kaer Morhen’s walls. How did you get him?” 

Jaskier, always content to be the centre of attention, launches into the tale of how they got the baby. It’s endearing, and Geralt smiles slightly. Next to him, Eskel and Lambert have matching grins, and he decides to ignore them. His brothers’ mischief can wait; the baby in his arms starting to fuss cannot. 

—

Winter in Kaer Morhen is a slow, peaceful thing. Mornings are spent lazing in bed, or, in Geralt’s case, being woken up by an overactive fourteen year old eager to train. Ciri is looking to learn more, to grow into her natural disposition. So Geralt indulges her. When Eskel or Lambert are not available, he trains with her, teaching her how to properly defend herself. Some mornings, he sends her to the library with Vesemir to study.

The other Wolves have started warming up to Jaskier, who entertains them in the evenings and afternoons, when Tiril sleeps. Even Aiden, the last to arrive at the Keep, is enjoying Jaskier’s presence. The Cat witcher is notoriously picky with the people he allows around him, and it had even taken him a while to warm up to the other Wolves besides Lambert. With Jaskier though, it only takes a few days before Aiden is joking around and treating him like he has always been there. 

In a way, it does feel like Jaskier has always been part of Geralt’s family. He fits in perfectly, a mix of Chaos and strength that matches the witchers, and never fails to amaze Geralt. 

There are mornings where Jaskier is the one to go train with Ciri. Yennefer hasn’t arrived yet, though she did send word that she was being held up in Redania for a few weeks and would portal in as soon as she could. Thus, Jaskier has decided to teach Ciri more about Chaos and how to use hers. 

Geralt loves mornings like those for two reasons: he gets to keep Tiril with him all morning long, to play with him and watch over him while he sleeps, and he gets to see Jaskier and Ciri interact. The two are different when they are just the two of them, something a bit nostalgic passing through their eyes. Geralt has heard them talk of Cintra in passing, and he had thought he would feel something like jealousy at the idea of Ciri growing so close to someone else, but he is happy to realize that he doesn’t. He’s glad, rather, that she has someone with whom she feels comfortable enough to talk about this. She deserves it.

Tiril is amazing, and everyone adores him. At almost a year old, he has the whole Keep wrapped around his fingers, in a very similar manner to Ciri. The others are learning with them the signs they can use to signify what they want to say, and Jaskier has taken to writing them down in a specific notebook. Eskel has decided that he would learn to cook baby food, which is definitely a disaster and a half, but a few of the dishes he makes have received claps and bubbles from Tiril, along with the excited sign for ‘good’. 

Still, there are days where it isn’t as easy. Days during which Jaskier and Vesemir talk in low voices by the fire, stories of the past that leave Jaskier hollow-eyed and tired. Some times, it is Ciri who is upset, training alone for hours despite the witchers telling her to rest. They all have their own demons to chase and fight, and unfortunately, not even Tiril is immune to that. 

The baby often has night terrors, which send him wailing loudly, and there has been more than one night that Geralt has bolted awake to his son’s loud noises. It’s never quite words, only garbled sounds, but they manage to convey fear and pain. After all, in the few days around Geralt rescuing him, Tiril had lived through quite perilous situations. 

In those moments, Geralt bolts to Jaskier’s room, just a few steps away from his own, and sits with the bard while they soothe Tiril as best as they can. It isn’t always perfect, but they do as best as they can. 

It’s on a night like this that there is a soft knock at Geralt’s door, a couple of hours after Geralt had left Tiril’s room after Jaskier had assured him he could handle the situation. Despite the fact that he would rather have stayed with Jaskier and Tiril, Geralt had listened to his friend and gone back to his own bed. 

“Come in,” he groans, his mind still heavy with sleep. “Door’s open.” 

Jaskier slips in, holding a kicking Tiril against himself. He looks tired, more than Geralt has seen him since they arrived here, and the witcher sits up, frowning. 

“What’s going on?” 

“It’s Tiril,” Jaskier sighs heavily. “He won’t sleep. I even tried a light sleeping spell that should have worked, but he seems to be resistant to it… I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

“A sleeping spell?” Geralt gestures to Jaskier to come to the bed. “Are you sure it didn’t hurt him or anything?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes as he sits next to him, Tiril still kicking and crying. “Yes, I’m sure I didn’t hurt my son, Geralt.” 

The witcher feels a twinge of guilt at having insinuated that, and he places a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Sorry. I know you would never harm Tiril. How long ago did you cast the spell?” 

“Long enough to start wondering if it didn’t affect me, rather than him,” Jaskier yawns and tries soothing Tiril again. “Come on darling, your dad is here, look, we are both here, everything is fine…” 

The flip that Geralt’s heart does when Jaskier refers to him as Tiril’s dad is nothing new. Each time it is acknowledged that he and Jaskier are co-parenting the baby, his heart beats ever so slightly faster. He is so glad to get this chance at raising a child, and he can only hope that he won’t fuck it up. He wants the best for Tiril, and he will fight anyone who does anything that could lead to unhappiness for his son, even if that person is himself. 

“Here, can you hold him? I want to see if he’ll calm down if I sign to him.” 

Geralt nods and takes the baby in his arms, careful not to get kicked in the process. Jaskier, after another yawn, turns to them. His hands are moving to make the signs they use to communicate, but Tiril is already starting to calm down in Geralt’s arms. The baby is pressing his face against Geralt’s torso and yawning, showing off all his baby teeth. His eyes, previously screwed shut as he silently cried, are now blinking lazily, looking up at Geralt and then at Jaskier. 

“Oh for the gods’ sake,” Jaskier sighs, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Of course he would quiet down as soon as _you_ held him.” 

Geralt chuckles. “I can keep him for the night if you want to rest properly.” 

“No, I… I don’t like to be separated from him at night.”

It’s easy to understand. Geralt knows that Tiril is safe with Jaskier, so he doesn’t dwell on the memory of waking up and being told that Tiril was missing. But Jaskier had been the one to discover it, the one to feel the Chaos lingering in the air. Jaskier has never said anything, but Geralt can see it now, the way the worry agitates him, the fear of it happening again. It’s not even that Jaskier doesn’t trust him with Tiril; rather, it’s that he is afraid of not being there for their son. 

“You can stay here,” Geralt adds gently. “The bed is big enough for the two of us, and Tiril will probably be calmer with the both of us. We’ve shared beds before.” 

“Right,” Jaskier nods, hesitates for a few seconds. He licks his lips and looks at the window, the moon still high and bright in the sky. “I could use some sleep.” 

With that said, he gets under the warm blanket of Geralt’s bed, not waiting for more of an invitation. This is, after all, a routine that they both know quite well. So Geralt settles back on his mattress, keeping Tiril in his arms. The baby, despite having settled down, is still staring up at him with his great brown eyes. 

“You need to sleep,” he whispers to him, caressing his cheek. 

Next to him, Jaskier is watching them, a smile curling his lips and softening his eyes. “Doesn’t he like when you speak to him? You could try singing him a lullaby.” 

“You’re the singer,” Geralt grumbles. “I’m not going to ruin a nice lullaby with my voice.” 

“Your voice is lovely,” Jaskier yawns through the words and comes closer, slowly resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder and putting his hand on Geralt’s hand holding Tiril. “Have some faith in yourself. I would like to hear you sing too.” 

The compliment, whispered against his skin, is a transparent attempt from Jaskier to get Geralt to sing, something he used to ask for regularly before the dragon hunt. It’s the first time since they reunited that he is asking for it, and Geralt doesn’t have the heart or the desire to refuse him. 

He sings a lullaby he has heard Jaskier sing to Tiril before, and he feels the bard’s smile against his shoulder. The closeness is almost burning him, making him ache with the want to confess again, to beg for forgiveness again and again. But Jaskier has asked him for time, and he can at least give him that. 

Tiril falls asleep, and so does Jaskier, when he is only halfway through the song. Geralt watches them for a few minutes before he feels sleep tugging at his eyelids. He holds the baby tightly and lefts himself drift to sleep. 

He wakes up when he feels an agitated stirring next to him, but when he cracks an eye open, Tiril is still sleeping soundly against his chest. It’s Jaskier who has moved back, and he is now wringing his hands together anxiously, biting at his lips as he mutters under his breath, too low even for Geralt to hear.

“Jaskier? What’s going on?” He doesn’t sit up, trying to not disturb Tiril. 

“Ah, shit, you’re awake,” Jaskier startles slightly. “Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to, it’s barely dawn you should go back to sleep-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt insists and puts his hand on Jaskier’s knee. “Don’t do this. Tell me what’s wrong, please.” 

To that, Jaskier sighs loudly, and when he turns his eyes to Geralt, there are tears shining in the gentle light of dawn. Panic seizes Geralt. Has he done something wrong, has he upset Jaskier? 

“I just, I love you.” Jaskier doesn’t quite sob, but it’s close to it, though Geralt is pretty sure it’s not of sadness. “It’s overwhelming, at times, how much I love you. I see you training with Ciri and I see the man I love, the other father of my children, trying to teach his family how to be safe at all times. When I leave Tiril with you, I know he is safer in your arms than anywhere else. Your family adores Tiril as much as they adore Ciri, and I can’t even begin to comprehend how lucky I am to be loved by you. And I rejected you! I messed up everything and I can’t stand it, because I love you _so much_.” 

Geralt stares at Jaskier, wordless for a few seconds. He can’t quite move; both because of the sleeping baby on his chest and because he isn’t quite sure what to do. The only thing he wants is…

“Kiss me,” he demands, voice rough. 

“What? Geralt-” 

“Kiss me,” he repeats, voice a bit desperate, and he grips Jaskier’s hand. “Now!” 

Jaskier obeys, and the first touch of his lips against Geralt’s is divine. It’s much better than anything Geralt could have dreamed of, despite the awkwardness of it. After all, he is still laying down with a baby on his chest, and Jaskier is bent half over him to kiss him. Still, it’s so much like them that Geralt can’t help the wide smile spreading over his face when they break apart. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “You didn’t mess up anything. I love you, so very much. I’m the lucky one to be loved by you.” 

Jaskier’s cheeks are covered in tears and he presses another kiss to Geralt’s lips, and then another, until they are both breathless, and Tiril stirs on Geralt’s chest. 

“Seems like we woke him up,” Jaskier sighs a bit, but he is back to being nestled against Geralt, their legs now intertwined. “Think he’ll go back to sleep?” 

“He’s probably exhausted,” Geralt says, switching to holding Tiril with his left arm so he can wrap the other around Jaskier, a hand sneaking to caress the bard’s hair. “And so are you. We should rest a few hours more.” 

Jaskier is halfway through agreeing when there is a knock at the door, which is pushed open immediately. Ciri walks in without waiting for an answer, yawning and looking a bit tired. 

“Dad, Pa, I had a nightmare,” she comes to nestle between the two of them. “Can I sleep with you?” 

Jaskier caresses her hair and chuckles. “How did you know we were both here?” 

“Wanted to see if Tiril was alright, and found your door open… Knew you were with dad, that’s where you always are.” She yawns again and closes her eyes, pushing her face into the pillow. “I’m glad you two are finally together though, didn’t want to have to wait another six months before you realized you are perfect for each other.” 

With that, she seems to fall back asleep, her breathing evening out. 

Geralt smiles tenderly at his daughter and then looks at Jaskier, who has tears in his eyes again. 

“She called me ‘pa’,” Jaskier sniffles slightly. “She sees me as her father too.” 

“We are a family.” Geralt smiles tenderly and leans over, careful not to disturb the children sleeping. “Go back to sleep, love.” 

He presses a tender kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, and the Unseelie Prince smiles bashfully before complying. 

They stay entangled all together, their breathing matching as they all fall back to sleep. 

Their life together is only beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D <3 Here is the end, with our darlings all happy together! 
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments, they made me so happy! I'm really glad to know that people enjoyed this fic! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to come check me & my writing out on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) or to leave a comment or kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hesitate to come check me out on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/saltytransidiot) where I post about dumb stuff like the boys, their families, and all my other fics that I obsess over :') I also post original content there, if you're interested in more of my writing !
> 
> If you enjoy the fic, leave a comment or kudos, they make my days! And thanks for reading ! Next chapter will be up tomorrow!


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